


Andrew Lloyd Webber Gets a Pass

by delicious-irony (deliciousirony), opal_bullets



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Actor Castiel (Supernatural), Actor Dean Winchester, Actor Sam Winchester, Alternate Universe - Theatre, Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Blow Jobs, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Mild Drug Use (past), Musicals, falling for your costar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-16
Updated: 2017-09-16
Packaged: 2018-12-30 08:09:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 37,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12104418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deliciousirony/pseuds/delicious-irony, https://archiveofourown.org/users/opal_bullets/pseuds/opal_bullets
Summary: In which Castiel's manner is vague and aloof, Dean Winchester doesn't care for a cuddle, and there's no doing anything about it.Or, Dean and Castiel attempt to survive rehearsals for a new production ofCats, and each other.





	Andrew Lloyd Webber Gets a Pass

**Author's Note:**

> This is a story about theatre. While it is based on practical experience, I do take some liberties with vocal parts, show premieres, production procedures, and some damn fine real estate in Chicago. Therefore, dear reader, suspend your disbelief and most of all:
> 
> Please, enjoy the show.

 

Singer’s Theatre and Prop Shop, a small converted warehouse tucked unassumingly in the middle of the sprawl of Chicago, was the closest thing Dean Winchester had left to a home. This was partly because it belonged to Bobby, who’d known him and his little brother Sam since the Winchesters had moved to the city as kids. He’d been the technical director for Paradise Theatre Company at the time. Now he kept himself busy in his retirement by building commissioned pieces in his own shop, puttering around at leisure in his uniform of worn flannel and a ball cap. But it felt like home even when Bobby wasn’t around; having an actor for a mother meant that Dean had grown up exploring the nooks and crannies of theatres, all of which had their own souls but were nevertheless the same: dark stages flanked by shadowy wings, cramped dressing rooms with bulb-lined mirrors, workshops full of tools where sets sat half-built, like creatures waiting to be born. Nothing was more familiar to him than the smell of sawdust and the weight of a drill in his hand.

 

So he was grateful to Bobby that when acting hadn’t panned out for him he’d had a position ready and waiting for Dean at his little shop. It was little only in that it was maybe half the size of Bobby’s kingdom while at Paradise, but still decently large and square, ceiling a couple of stories high and wide enough to hold whatever pieces a local theatre might ask him to build. If they were big, Bobby might drag Rufus or Tara out of retirement too, or pay Sam to put in a few hours between his college coursework. There was nothing like that at the moment, though. Just Dean, the radio, the frame of an old car, and the clock on the wall, ticking ever closer to midnight.

 

Dean loved the bustle of a working theatre’s busy shop, but over the past couple of years he’d grown to love this, too. There was just something about the space in the darkest hours of the night, with only half the fluorescents on and the radio turned lower than Dean would usually crank it. The sound seemed to carry better in the evening air, like it was meant only for Dean. Working this late was meditative for him, usually, but the car made it all a little different. A community theatre had Bobby consulting for their inaugural season, and they’d chosen _Grease_ to bring people into the seats. Dean had no problem with that in and of itself; theatre companies had to do whatever they could to sell tickets, even in a big theatre town like Chicago, and what could be better than a musical that was Chicagoan at its core? It was just that the show’s music was catchy, and the fifties rock’n’roll in his head was drowning out the classic seventies rock warbling from his stereo speakers, causing his thoughts to snag again and again on his own high school production of _Grease_.

 

Dean sighed, tapping his pencil on the paper he had laid out over the trunk of the car. Sourcing an actual ’48 Ford De Luxe Convertible – the community theatre wanted to nod to the movie version of the musical in that respect – would have been far beyond budget. So Dean needed to build upon the curves of the car to mimic the correct shape before he painted her white and made her shine. He remembered when he’d first painted an old car white for _Grease_ ; there wasn’t a high school in all America that doesn’t perform the musical, but damn it hadn’t felt special at the time, getting cast as Danny his senior year. The actors always helped with tech to get the full theatre experience – not that Dean hadn’t already had plenty of experience by then – but he’d no reason to complain when he was given the task of painting the car with Cassie, the talented and gorgeous girl who’d been cast as Sandy. He remembered catching her eyes and blushing, how she couldn’t seem to stop smiling. He remembered the flash of bravery he’d felt, deciding hey, they were wearing old clothes anyway, right? And flicking some paint on Cassie’s arms. How she’d shrieked in mock outrage and retaliated. How they’d laughed and laughed. How they danced together (he loved watching her curls bounce) and sang together (her voice so clear and sweet) and fell for each other just like their characters did. They experienced the bloom and blush of first love together, lost their virginities together; they made vows and oaths with sights set on forever.

 

But they never had a summer love. Never made it past spring. In real life good girls don’t change their life trajectories for delinquents like him, no matter how cool your car is, or how slick your leather jacket. While Dean was busy skipping most of his classes to hone his petty theft and pickpocketing skills, she was studying and getting straight As. While he wasn’t thinking much beyond tomorrow night’s dinner, she was planning a grand future. While he dropped out, she went off to NYU to study and start her career and left Dean behind in the dust. He hadn’t blamed her, still didn’t. Despite his attempts at advancing himself he only ever ended up back in the same place, and Cassie, well, a year ago his mom had sent him a newspaper clipping from the _New York Times_ arts section. Cassie Robinson, their new staff writer.

 

Dean shook his head, trying to chase the memories away. He felt sickly self-doubt sink into his stomach anyway. He should have known, then. He’d been young with Robin, all fifteen-year-olds are stupid, but after Cassie he should’ve known he was never quite good enough, not on the stage and not off it either. He should have protected himself, isolated himself sooner, but then there had been Ellie, and even then when he’d sworn he’d finally learned his lesson…A few months ago he’d fallen into the same trap with Aaron. Dean was never going to be free of this curse, the indelible mark on his soul that pushed people away and never allowed them to love him the way he loved them.

 

Because he was so deep in his thoughts, it took him a moment to notice the sound of a key being jammed into the lock on the backdoor of the shop. Dean looked up over the car to the door just in time to watch it open.

“Hey, Dean.”

 

It was Sam. In that moment Dean was struck by how his brother, who was ridiculously tall and bulking up at the shoulders, basically filled the entire doorframe. He was no longer the gangly beanpole he’d been even a year or so before, but truly a man and at 22, finally starting to look like one. All the extra training he’d been getting studying for his theatre degree, building muscle and grace and presence through dance and performance and just being an awesome dude in general, Dean’s squirt of a little brother was, well…hardly those things anymore.

 

“Hey, Sammy,” Dean said, tucking his pencil behind his ear and rolling up his draft. It was clear he’d be getting no more work done tonight. “Not that I’m not happy to see you, but why are you here?”

 

Sam tossed his backpack onto the blond wooden bench that lined the north wall and stepped up to the passenger side of the car. “The shop is closer than home. Thought I’d catch a ride back with you.”

 

“Uh huh,” said Dean, who knew full well his college’s performing arts building was pretty much the same distance from their tiny apartment as the shop. “And?”

 

Sam propped one of his elbows on the roof. “And…you hear the big news today?”

 

“Sorry, the Gossip-in-Chief wasn’t in for long.” Bobby always claimed to be out of the game, but often knew what was going on in Chicago’s theatre community before the community itself did.

 

“Well get this.” Sam leaned forward a little. “Paradise Theatre announced its next production.”

 

Very much despite himself, Dean was intrigued. Sam and Dean both had a tangential history with the company, Paradise having not only been Bobby’s former employer, but their mother Mary had performed there a few times as well. It was the oldest and most respected theatre company in a city that thrived on the craft; it had been founded by the Milton family and was still their official base.

 

If theatre were its own country, the Miltons would be royalty. Sometimes just called “The Family” like they were some kind of mob, they’d been in the biz since time out of mind and were so productive – in both theatre and in having children – various branches had entangled the entire city, and most other major cities, too. Whether they were Miltons, or Shurleys, or Novaks, and whether they were producing, writing, directing, designing, or acting, they demanded perfection and always delivered. But they were also the most stuck-up, sanctimonious pricks Dean had ever had the misfortune to meet, to a one, and it annoyed Dean to no end that Chicago was crawling with them.

 

It couldn’t be denied, though, that their work was fantastic. The last production he’d seen there was the premiere of a new show based on Ovid’s _Metamorphoses_ , and it’d been so spectacular watching all the myths unfold before his eyes it really had felt like a little slice of divinity. “Alright,” he said. “Hit me.”

 

Sam grinned, showing a flash of teeth. “ _Cats_.”

 

Dean blinked. He went over it in his head again and again, but still came up with the same word. “ _Cats_?”

 

“ _Cats_.”

 

“You mean _Cats_ , the musical. You mean hopping in a DeLorean and going back to the eighties _Cats_. Actors pretending to be allergy-inducing fleabags _Cats_. Spandex _Cats_. _Cats_.”

 

Sam dropped the grin and rolled his eyes. “Yes, Dean. _Cats_.”

 

“Well excuse me for wondering why the fuck they’re bringing back that reject,” Dean huffed. He twirled the rolled paper in his hand as he turned away, heading to a table across the shop to put it with the other sketches.

 

“They’re saying Chuck wants to revamp the whole thing,” Sam said, voice carrying easily across the room. Chuck, part of the Shurley branch of Milton empire, was the current head of the company and directed all their shows. He was notoriously reclusive and rumored to be hip-deep in the sauce, but in The Family’s eye he could do no wrong. “It’s not going to be a revival of the original production, though,” he continued. “It’s going to be a complete new show from the ground up. New choreography, new characterizations, everything. People at school are already saying it’s going to become the new standard. And I’d hardly call the fourth longest running show on Broadway a _reject_.”

 

Dean quirked a smile at his enthusiasm and turned back to face him. “It’s about time, Sammy.”

 

“What?”

 

“That you get back in the game.”

 

Sam beamed and Dean was warmed to see that inner theatre geek shining through so bright. It hadn’t made any sense to Dean that Sam hadn’t tried to get into any professional production before or whilst in college since he was definitely talented enough – if he’d gotten into a show, why bother finishing a degree when he could work on practical experience? – but the kid had been adamant. All those years of watching their mother perform from the wings of the stage, or getting underfoot when Bobby or their dad was trying to build something, none of that had been enough for Sam. He’d wanted room to experiment and work the flies and call the cues and direct his own shows and learn from an entirely new group of people. And Sam had been right, Dean supposed. He’d flourished into an accomplished artist, and any production would be lucky to have him. Spring was in full swing and Sam would be graduating in just a month.

 

“Yeah, I thought so,” said Sam a bit shyly. “I’ll have my degree by the time rehearsal would start. I mean, if I get cast. A big if.”

 

“You’ll get cast,” said Dean. “You’ve been singing that show since you were in diapers and your voice fits the style. Want me to help prepare you for the audition?” Dean couldn’t imagine that Sam would really want his help, as he himself hadn’t auditioned in years and his brother probably had a plethora of peers and professors to choose from at school, but he couldn’t help but ask. He loved working with Sam.

 

“No—” began Sam, and Dean steeled himself so the disappointment didn’t show, “I mean yes, obviously, but…”

 

“But what?” Dean prompted. When Sam bit his lip and looked away, Dean grabbed the wide push broom hanging on the wall, and wished he would just get the rejection over with so he could accept that his brother was moving on without him too.

 

“I want to work with you, but not just for me.” Sam ran a hand through his hair and his eyes darted to the floor and back. “You’d have it in the bag too, you know. When I was singing in diapers you were singing right along with me.”

 

Dean froze for half a second, then set himself to work sweeping the floor. He stared hard at its splotchy surface, speckled with flecks of multi-colored paint from years and years of jobs. “No,” he said, once he was sure his voice would be even.

 

“Dean—”

 

“I said no, Sam. Drop it.”

 

Sam, true to his stubborn-ass form, didn’t drop it. “It’s time you got back in the game too, you know. We can audition together.”

 

“No.”

 

“Seriously, Dean, what’s your hang up?” he asked, getting a little hot under the collar. “Mom? Dad? I know it’s not Bobby, he’d cut your hours down in a heartbeat if it meant you were in a show again.”

 

Dean bit back a growl and swept harder. “Mom’s in New York and Dad’s in Minnesota. You think I give a single fuck what they’d have to say about it?”

 

“Sure. Fine. Then give me another reason why you don’t audition anymore.”

 

“I just don’t want to, jesus.” Dean kept his eyes trained on the long thin pile of sawdust accumulating along the front edge of the bristles.

 

“I don’t believe you,” was the immediate reply. “I know you like working with Bobby but you love performing, Dean. When Brady completely flaked on me for my directing practicum last semester, you think I don’t know why you agreed to step into his role instead?”

 

“Because you begged me and you were gonna fail?”

 

 “No,” said Sam. “Because you knew you could do it. You looked at all seven hours of _Angels in America_ and went, ‘Yeah, I can learn that in a couple of weeks.’ I mean, I knew you could do it too, that wasn’t the issue. You just…over the past couple of years you had me fooled.”

 

Dean kept sweeping, but more slowly. Sam’s voice rang clear over the radio and the broom’s brushes. “You _almost_ had me fooled, I mean.” Another pause. “I think if I’d really believed you had left performance behind you I wouldn’t have convinced my professors to let you in. But I did, and _you_ did, and you were amazing. I prepared that show for months and you waltz in two weeks to open and elevate the damn thing at least three times over. My actors worked up to your level from day one and you did that. You did that, Dean.”

 

He stopped sweeping. From the far corner, a DJ and his co-host filled the airwaves with muted laughter. Dean squeezed the broom handle, watching his knuckles turn white. He hesitantly started up again and swallowed the lump in his throat. “Well I’m not the bitch who decided taking on both parts one and two of _Angels in America_ on top of a full course load was a good idea.”

 

“Jerk,” Sam retorted, but Dean could hear the good humor in his voice.

 

Both brothers let the conversation rest for a while. Dean made short work of the last half of the room, and when he was just about finished, Sam straightened off the car and grabbed a brush and dustpan. He bent his tall frame to the task of sweeping up the pile Dean had made and dumping it into the large garbage can in the corner, tapping the pan on the edge. They finished up the closing chores together, falling in sync like the old days even though Sam didn’t do them often anymore, with college demanding so much of his time.

 

Neither of them spoke again until Dean was washing his hands in the shop sink. Sam leaned his ass on the bench next to it and crossed his arms. He cleared his throat, opened his mouth, and then closed it again.

 

Dean sighed and snapped off the faucet. “Spit it out, Sam.”

 

“I didn’t start performing because of Mom,” he said quietly. “Not from watching her walk the boards or because I felt some legacy, or obliged to enter the family business or anything like that.”

 

About to reach for a paper towel, Dean lowered his hands to the edge of the sink and looked at Sam properly for the first time since he’d suggested the audition.

 

Sam gave him a small smile. “It was you.”

 

“What are you talking about?” Dean asked, just as quiet.

 

“I was, what, eleven? Twelve? And you were in that high school _Romeo and Juliet_. Your first leading role.”

 

“Yeah, I remember,” Dean said. _I remember Robin._ “They cut out all the dirty jokes. It fucking sucked.” _I wasn’t good enough for her._

 

“Heh, yeah, I suppose they would’ve. I don’t remember it that way, though. I loved it.”

 

“You would, nerd.”

 

Sam ignored him. “I’d never seen you like that before. I mean, I always looked up to you…well, I still do…you’re my big brother, right? But onstage you were larger than life, and the fight choreography was so badass, and then when you died…You know that’s the first time a show made me cry?”

 

No, Dean hadn’t known that. He wanted to look away, but Sam’s eyes were so wide and earnest that he couldn’t.

 

“When I was small, and Mom and Dad were on the rocks more often than not, you would sing and dance with me all the time. It was my favorite game. Still just a game, though. But after seeing you as Romeo I finally understood…Understood that there’s so much more to theatre than fun and dress up. It’s joy and laughter, yes, but also tears and sorrow, and anger, and family and enemies and lovers, and theatre…Theatre is life. It lives and it dies and it comes back night after night to live and die again and again and there’s nothing in all of humanity like it. You taught me that, Dean.”

 

Dean began to tear up. With a will he unstuck his gaze from Sam’s and ripped a paper towel off the roll sitting on the sink ledge.

 

“You still love it, don’t you?” Sam persisted. “You said it yourself, Mom and Dad don’t get an opinion on this. What is it that you want?”

 

Fiddling with the paper in his hands, Dean struggled with his thoughts. He didn’t know how to explain to his brother, who loved theatre so much, that his own love had turned so sour. How watching their parents crash and burn was just the prologue to his own failed relationships. There’d only been four of them, even though he was 26, and none of them lasted more than a few months. But it was more than that Dean wasn’t good enough or that he’d been holding them back. It was the _way_ Dean fell, the way Dean’s traitorous heart  would decide to open up at the worst of times: whenever Dean’s characters fell in love, he fell right along with them. He’s never fallen in love outside of a production, never fallen for someone unless they were portraying a character that loved him back. Loved his character back, that is. Because Dean had his wires crossed or maybe, he considered wryly, he was just star-crossed. The idea was dramatic and dumb, even in his head, and he couldn’t bring himself to say it out loud. That didn’t mean it wouldn’t end in disaster, if he ever tried acting again. Even if it was _Cats_ , which had no written-in romance. Just a bunch of weird-named fleabags meeting each other in the middle of the night, and no more plot than choosing to give an older cat a second chance at life. Even then.

 

And yet…he couldn’t deny he missed it. He missed the freedom that acting provided, the camaraderie of a cast, and the catharsis of performance. Most of all, though, Dean missed Sam. He missed singing with him and practicing with him and seeing him for more than the 20 minutes it took him to eat breakfast and run out the door for class. If this was going to be his last chance to spend quality time with his little brother, if this was really what would make him happy? _And if_ , a voice whispered in his head, _and if, when you don’t get cast, you can finally stop asking what if?_

 

Dean took a deep breath. “Even if I did want to act again,” he finally said, adding just the right amount of a teasing lilt, “why the hell would I audition for _Cats_?”

 

Sam snorted, the moment officially gone. “You love _Cats_.”

 

“No I don’t. I hate cats in real life, why would I want anything to do with a stupid show about them that makes no damn sense?” No need to capitulate too easily. He tossed the towel in the garbage and headed to the back exit.

 

“Yeah, okay,” said Sam. “Maybe I’d believe you if one of my first memories wasn’t actually of the song ‘Memory,’ as sung by _you_.”

 

“It was the eighties, everyone was singing _Cats_.”

 

“Was everyone singing it in Batman underwear?” Sam laughed, trailing behind him.

 

“Shut up.” Dean flicked off the radio and tossed Sam his bag.

 

Sam slung it over his shoulder. “It’ll be just like the old days if we get cast, you know? We used to sing these songs all the time.”

 

Dean grunted. It was true enough. He used to love the musical as a kid, when he was still enchanted by the possibilities of theatre. The soundtrack got a lot of play in their household, back in the pre-Chicago Kansas days, and not just because it was brand new. It met the exacting standards of Mary Winchester and the gruff concerns of John Winchester, who still held Vietnam in his thoughts (“A kid can’t listen to a man get _scourged_ , Mary, didn’t he just write one about cats?”), because let’s not expose children to too much violence, unless you feel like getting into fistfights at shitty bars, right? But that was later, after _Cats_. After Dean knew the record backwards and forwards, after he and Sam had tried out all the harmonies, before Sam had decided he wanted a dog for a pet instead, before dancing in unitards and cat makeup seemed stupid and childish. Still, though. He’d never quite been able to shake his fondness for it. It was Andrew Lloyd Webber after all, and maybe Dean had a weakness for his unabashedly dramatic music. Maybe. He grabbed his jacket off its hook and shrugged it on.

 

“Look,” said Sam. “Maybe it’s been years for you and I’ve never auditioned for a professional company before, but we can do it together. Now’s the time. You and me.” He nudged Dean with his elbow. “There is no other road, no other way. No day but today.”

 

“Ugh, shut your face, Sam. _Rent_? Really?” Pulling his keys out of his pocket, Dean opened the door and shoved Sam outside into the night ahead of him. He tried pushing thoughts of Ellie, inextricably linked with the show in Dean’s head, out along with him.

 

After making sure all the shop lights were off, he pulled the door closed behind him and locked it. Sam waited for him in the single pool of lamplight behind the building, a breeze lifting his shoulder-length hair. His little brother was looking so clearly anxious and hopeful that Dean felt he might as well put him out of his misery. “What the hell,” he said. “I’ll do it.”

 

“Yeah?” Sam was smiling, but he also looked a little too relieved to be entirely unsuspicious. “Good. That’s good.”

 

Dean paused with the door to his baby (the ’67 Chevy Impala their dad had left them when he’d moved to Minnesota) half-open. “What?”

 

“I, uh. I maybe already told Pam to get an audition slot for both of us?” Sam’s smile grew sheepish and he hunched his shoulders in an effort to look smaller, his whole body screaming, _Who, me?_

 

“Damnit, Sammy!”

 

The tail end of Sam’s triumphant laughter was drowned out when Dean turned the car on and the engine grumbled into life.

 

[ ](http://i64.tinypic.com/2ep6mpu.jpg)

 

Pamela Barnes was widely considered one of the best agents in the business. She’d been an intern at her agency when Mary Campbell was just starting to make a name for herself, and the women had bonded over local beer and rock’n’roll. Even after Mary left Chicago in her rearview for Broadway, Pam kept her eye on Sam and Dean. Out of friendship for their mother and fondness for the boys themselves, Pam had agreed to take them on as clients, though what she felt she got out of a stubborn college kid and an even more stubborn techie, Dean had no idea. Even after the _Rent_ fiasco she hadn’t kicked him to the curb. But the fact was she was one of the few people who knew that Mary Campbell was legally Mary Winchester and that her children had theatre aspirations of their own. The brothers were fine with the arrangement, even insisted upon it. They were content to make or break on their own merits, and Pam humored them on this, though all three knew throwing a name like Mary’s around could get you places. It didn’t stop her from giving them calculating looks now and then, whenever she cornered them.

 

It certainly didn’t stop her from dropping by Bobby’s shop to meddle, especially when she felt it was her business.

 

Auditions were in a week and Dean was too irritated to be nervous. Sam’s graduation had been last weekend, Class of 2005, and Dean couldn’t be more proud. Seeing his little brother in the cap and gown had been the best moment of his entire damn life, but could either of their parents have been bothered to show? Apparently not. Sam and John were on another of their silent treatment jags and both had been too stubborn to give it up, even for this. And according to Sam, the last time he’d spoken to Mary she hadn’t even realized it was already his senior year, and he decided not to correct her.

 

“Why the fuck not?!” Dean had asked.

 

He’d set his jaw and stared Dean down. “Because you’re the one who got me here, not them.”

 

“You…got you here,” Dean retorted, but he’d let it go. Didn’t even bring it up when he’d seen Sam scanning the crowd anyway. Not even when he started getting pissy after the endorphins of graduating had worn off, slamming doors and not wanting to talk about anything but working toward auditions. Dean didn’t blame him, he really didn’t, but when the kid started getting too pushy he pushed back. They fought and accusations were thrown and honestly, Bobby’s shop was the safest place to be right now.

 

At least all that extra time spent with the car meant he’d gotten the curves shaped perfectly. Dean was in the middle of painting the frame white and carefully covering the seams of his additions when a loud buzz zipped through the shop. Dean and Bobby glanced at each other across room, playing a silent game of chicken to see who got to go to the lobby and be the public face of the shop. Dean won when he gestured toward himself, splattered here and there with wet paint. Bobby sighed, lifted his baseball cap to run a hand through his hair, and settled it back on his head. He muttered “idjit” just loud enough that Dean could hear it.

 

He thought that was that, until the lobby door opened and Bobby stuck his head back in. “It’s Pam,” he said. He waited until Dean reluctantly set down his brush and kept watching as he made his way over. The old coot knew he was far too likely to slip out the backdoor and hide.

 

The lobby of Singer’s Theatre and Prop Shop was pretty small, as most of the building was taken up by the shop itself. It has the same concrete floor as the rest of the shop and the walls were painted all white. The spartan feel was softened by a few large, dark-cushioned chairs and the many pictures Bobby had hung of his crowning technical achievements. Pam was not out of place in the relaxed atmosphere, wearing a nice leather jacket and jeans. When she saw Dean walk into the room she pushed her sunglasses up onto the top of her head. “Hello, grumpy,” she drawled.

 

Dean crossed his arms. “What can I do for you?”

 

“It’s more about what you can do for yourself, sweetcheeks.”

 

“Sam called you, didn’t he?”

 

Smelling gossip, instead of going back into the shop Bobby opened the door to his office off the side of the lobby. There wasn’t room in there for much more than a couple small parts cabinets, a mini-fridge where they kept their lunches, an old metal desk, and an ancient computer that he didn’t use for much more than email and drafting software. So even though Bobby nominally took himself out of the room, he was well within earshot. Whatever, not like he wouldn’t find out anyway.

 

Pam smiled, but it was sharp. “Yeah, he did. And he told me he finally weaseled your audition piece out of you. You sure about it, honey?”

 

“You won’t change my mind, Pam.”

 

“I see. So if I listed off a few suggestions?”

 

“You’d be wasting your breath.” When she didn’t say anything else, just waited him out, Dean sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. He knew exactly what she was getting at but he didn’t want the mind games. “Sam’s got it in his head that I’m trying to bomb the audition, but I’m not.”

 

Pam hummed, letting his words sink in. She eyed him up and down, making him feel self-conscious about the holes in his jeans and the paint cracking on his hands as it dried. “No,” she said at length. “I don’t believe you are. But you have to help me understand it, Dean, because I can’t talk your brother down if I don’t.”

 

Before he could formulate a response, the sound of the mini-fridge slamming shut echoed out of Bobby’s office. The man himself appeared a second later, holding three beers. Yielding to the inevitable, Dean took the beers and popped the caps with one of his rings. Pam accepted hers gracefully and sat down in one of the chairs, the men following suit. They clinked necks and downed a gulp each. This solemn ritual completed, Bobby leaned back and set Dean with a hard look. “So why does Sam think you’re trying to bomb your audition?”

 

Dean fiddled with the edge of the beer label. “He thinks the song I picked is totally wrong.”

 

“What’s the song?”

 

“‘Why Should I Wake Up?’ from _Cabaret_.” He took another slug of his beer and bit the inside of his cheek, waiting for Bobby to chew that over.

 

Bobby huffed and scratched his graying beard. “Well it doesn’t scream _Cats_ , I’ll give you that.”

 

“It sure doesn’t,” agreed Pam.

 

Dean shrugged, and neither of them pushed. Left to his own thoughts, he let his eyes wander along the walls; he rarely looked at the pictures anymore, since he’d seen them a million times and usually used the backdoor anyway. He lingered on the one directly across from him, the biggest frame in the lobby and hard to miss. It pictured one of Bobby’s most impressive builds at Paradise, an unusually complex set for _Jesus Christ Superstar_. Instead of going biblical, the production was designed to resemble medieval and renaissance Christian aesthetics, so familiar to the Western eye. The set gave the illusion of the audience being in the pews of a giant cathedral, so that when Jesus was dying on the cross it seemed as if he were in place above the altar, just like a crucifix in a real church. There were columns lining either side with chapels between them; any given moment an actor could stand in a spot and look like a saintly statue one might pray to, or pageant fools acting out the stations of the cross. He’d had to build facsimiles of stained glass windows and paint wood to look like marble and make it seem so grand not even the Pope could turn his nose up at it. Even before the lighting it had been gorgeous. Dean remembered it so well because it had been Mary’s first production at Paradise. She’d played Mary Magdalene, of course.

 

 _Superstar_ was a favorite of Mary’s, being a rock opera that fulfilled both the hard and soft sides of her musical taste. It happened to be one of the few musicals that John enjoyed as well, probably for the same reason. And because of that, Dean couldn’t listen to it without thinking of the two of them in their little home in Kansas, where John was an auto mechanic and Mary took care of her young sons, but still dreamed of the big time. They loved each other but fought so much, both of them the strong and stubborn type (at least Sam and Dean came by it honestly). At first it was just little storms that brewed between them. Mary would stomp off into the kitchen and start banging pots and pans around, while John grumpily plopped onto the ugly, burnt orange couch and turned on the TV. Dean would often be sitting on the brown carpet in front of him, trying to teach baby Sammy how to roll a ball back and forth upon the floor.

 

Then the banging would stop. Maybe dinner was in the oven, or maybe Mary had worn out her ire with vigorous mashing or mixing, but eventually Dean would see her lingering in the doorway, watching her sons and eyeing her husband with a complex expression Dean couldn’t, and still really didn’t, understand. After a bit she would lean over the back of the old couch, lightly pull the TV remote from John’s hand, and hit the mute button. Then she’d sing:

 

_Try not to get worried, try not to turn on to problems that upset you_

_Oh, don’t you know everything’s alright, yes, everything’s fine_

Hands rubbing John’s shoulders, or carding through his dark hair. Mary singing Mary Magdalene.

 

_Close your eyes, close your eyes and relax_

_Think of nothing tonight_

Without the interjections of the other characters, the song turned into a never-ending round of reassurance and lullaby and love.

 

_Everything’s alright, yes, everything’s alright, yes_

And as if her singing made it so, everything would be alright, and John would smile, and kiss his wife, and they were a happy family once more. For a while love always won out. John quit his job and they moved to Chicago – a theatre mecca in easier reach than New York, and far better for the big black impala they all loved – so Mary could pursue her dream. With her skill and perseverance, she started to get roles. But rehearsals are long, and shows run late, and big cities are expensive. Dean was left to watch over Sam while their parents worked, John at the mechanic and helping out Bobby part time, and Mary hitting the pavement and when she was lucky, walking the boards. In retrospect, Mary and John probably saw less of each other than their boys did. Regardless they grew apart. Suddenly John couldn’t remember why he’d allowed Mary to talk him into moving away from his childhood home and letting her play dress-up while she should be helping make money and raise their children. Mary could no longer see the young, sweet boy who didn’t let the darkness he’d experience in Vietnam overcome his brightness; where he once shined with love and honesty and respect, now shadows of anger and harsh discipline drooped across his shoulders. Sometimes she stayed at rehearsals longer than she needed to. Sometimes John would take road trips, citing the need to leave Chicago. He was a prairie boy, and needed his open air. He brought Sam and Dean along for quite a few of them, and they stayed in ratty old motels and rickety cabins, jumping off warped docks into lakes or making cheesy poses in front of kitschy roadside attractions. Or, more often as they grew older, eating cereal out of the box in front of the tiny TV while John got drunk in a dingy local bar.

 

When he didn’t bring them along, the brothers learned to be quiet, so so quiet, while their mother was at rehearsal or working. She couldn’t have them in the rehearsal space, and Missouri in the apartment next door couldn’t always babysit, so she got clever. She’d time her entrance so she could sneak them into buildings without anyone noticing, and they learned to hide, and watch. They made friends of the catwalks and dusty corners and haunted hallways and all the parts of theatres superstitious actors and crew willfully ignored to protect themselves from ghosts and curses. But once she started working at Paradise Bobby caught them, eventually, and once he’d figured out what was going on, let them stay in the shop where he could keep an eye on them. That’s when they began their real theatre education, though they hadn’t known it; they learned to build, and design, and sew.

 

It was an adventure, sometimes, but the precarious balance their parents had reached came crashing down when John returned from one of his jaunts, and admitted to having an affair with a painter living in Minnesota, and that that woman was now pregnant.

 

The fallout was catastrophic. The fights were messy, the guilt was worse, and the divorce felt like the goddamn apocalypse. Mary swanned off to New York City not long after, abandoning the boys in Chicago because, she claimed, she didn’t want to take them out of their schools and upend their lives just for her sake. Dean was a freshman in high school by that point, so even though John was nominally still living with them, he actually just pissed off to Minnesota more often than not.

 

So it was that Dean found himself cast as the lead in his first play, feeding his brother every night, and falling head over heels for Robin, the Juliet to his Romeo. His first relationship borne out of the destruction of another. She couldn’t understand the dark turn his life had taken, and he couldn’t let her see the hurt and the horror he held inside. She broke up with him, in the end, and thus his curse began. Dean was doomed to live love only through art, like his mother, and doomed to love only the artists in his life, like his father. And just like his parents, his love will never be requited in just the way he needs, because whether the romance in a show is realistic and complex, or sweeping and melodramatic, he gets suckered in by it every damn time.

 

These failed relationships, from his parents to now, colored how he saw theatre, no matter what angle he looked at it from. So when it came time to think very seriously about how he wanted to represent himself at his audition, it wasn’t about reaching for a future in performance—how could he, when he was stuck in the past? Wallowing in how, despite already having sons, his father so heavily favored his new one. How, despite her love for her family, his mother couldn’t ignore it when opportunity came knocking from far away. How the women – and man – whom he’d fallen for had all left him too, in the end, because of shitty circumstances and the lack of depth in the feelings they had for him, his own inability to inspire real love in others, and his total madness in stepping into the same trap again and again and _again_ because it felt so damn good performing, and being set free through becoming someone else, laughing and loving and creating with brilliant, beautiful people for weeks and even months on end…He knew it was going to happen again if he got cast in a show, he knew it, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. God he loved acting, he did, but it left him bare and raw and ugly and alone, it burned him every time, so if he was going to do this, jump back into it, dive headfirst and knowing into the mess it made of him, then fuck the past and fuck the future. He was going to live in the present and enjoy the ride, damnit, and hate himself only when it was over.

 

So why not pick “Why Should I Wake Up?” Why not express himself through the words of Clifford Bradshaw, caught in his whirlwind romance with cabaret star Sally, ensnared in the drug-laden doomsday society of Weimar Berlin with disaster breathing down their necks? The words of someone who let himself go even though he knew it was wrong, just because it felt so good in the now?

 

Dean tore his eyes away from Bobby’s picture and downed the rest of his beer in one go. “I’m singing that song,” he said, “because it’s how I feel.”

 

Bobby glanced back over and gave him a shrewd look from beneath the brim of his hat. “Then it’s the right song, Dean. Forget the rest.”

 

Pam just smiled.

 

[ ](http://i63.tinypic.com/2z4wizb.jpg)

 

Sam and Dean both floated through the morning of auditions, feeling a little strange. While never a part of the company, the building of Paradise Theatre itself was known to them, though their habit had been to sneak in through the back. Dean sometimes forgot how grand it was from the front, even in daylight when the blue and white lights of the marquee were dark. It had a façade that allowed it to fit in the affluent area near the Magnificent Mile; it was several stories tall with neo-Renaissance influence and some old Chicago style. Enormous windows towered a few floors high in graceful arches, with smaller windows neatly stacked on top like extra layers of cake. Presiding over the grand white building were two statues of angels poised in action, wings spread high over their shoulders, spears pointed toward the ground far below as if they were ready to smite at a moment’s notice. There were three large sets of doors that stood propped open on warm performance nights, letting in the cool air that blew into the city off Lake Michigan. They were closed now, but unlocked, and the brothers trailed behind a few other hopefuls as they stepped inside.

 

The lobby wasn’t as opulent as other theatres and opera houses of the late 19th century, which were built in the neo-Baroque style so popular at the time. Still, the original Miltons’ conservative Midwestern response to their grandeur was no less rich and intimidating. Engaged columns lined the walls in perfect white marble, the ceiling was high as a cathedral overhead, and cunningly crafted crystal chandeliers dripped from its rafters. A staircase started on either side of the lobby, sweeping up to meet each other at the height of the second floor. Each had its own angel guarding the bannister at the bottom, and not the sweet cherubs you might expect, either; they were warriors like their brothers on the roof, with armor and weaponry to hand. Instead of spears, though, they held shields and swords lifted with their gazes toward the sky. There were no wasteful Baroque curlicues that boggled the eye, but silver- and goldleaf still glinted here and there. Frescoes brought the most color to the walls and ceiling, through what could only be the Family’s vision of Paradise, gardens and angels and clouds and pure blue sky. Dark blue carpeting pulled it all together, and was soft under their feet as they made their way into the house, passing through the staircases and their guardian angels.

 

The house, or the performance space of the theatre, had its doors wide open. Even here the Miltons had broken from the fashion, eschewing the royal reds and golds other places favored; the blue carpet continued into the aisles, and the chairs were the same deep hue with silvery white accents. The space was large enough to seat almost 2,000 people, and since the house lights were up all the floors and balconies were visible. On the orchestra level several people were milling around, some who worked for the theatre, and others actors warming up for the dance auditions that would be happening soon. The company’s performance season had just ended, and the set had clearly been struck: the stage was empty. There would be plenty of room for dancers to spread out and strut their stuff.

 

Dean knew both he and Sam had their singing auditions first, though. So they went directly down the aisle to the table set up in the gutter between the seats and the pit. A lackey with a short beard and mousy voice checked them in and told them to go to music room five. They smiled politely when he gave them directions, but barely paid attention, They may never have performed onstage at Paradise, but backstage was their domain.

 

They slipped into the wings and backstage. The workshop, as wide as the stage and twice as deep, directly abutted the backstage area so sets could be rolled out directly when needed. Upstairs was Ellen Harvelle’s space, where she kept her stable of lighting instruments and gels of every color. Below, in the basement, next to where the orchestra practiced and settled into their pit, or actors waited to be sent up through the stage floor, Ezra Moore had her seemingly endless catalog of costumes. Sam and Dean walked past these old haunts of theirs, past the dozens of ropes and pulleys that made up the flies, past the stairs to the catwalks, past the dressing rooms, and into the labyrinthine hallways that made up the rest of the building.

 

This is where people came to work, so nothing was so rich as the lobby and the house, and much had been remodeled with a modern touch. Many of the corridors had sensible tile flooring and plain white walls lined with posters, neatly framed and proclaiming the names of shows performed there in centuries past. Farther into the innards of the theatre, there were the offices of the administrators and designers, dance studios large and small, and music rooms, too. It had been a while since they’d roamed the halls, but Dean was surprised to find himself comfortable. The brothers climbed a back stairway and turned a corner to see a hallway lined with plastic chairs, a few of which were filled with other actors. A couple others were pacing up and down, going through vocal exercises, their “mi-me-ma” and “puh-tuh-kuh-tuh” echoing off the walls.

 

Sam and Dean, having warmed up in their apartment before driving over, chose to sit. Almost immediately, Sam started jiggling one of his legs up and down. Dean glanced up at a girl, determinedly murmuring “red leather, yellow leather,” and it reminded him of his favorite tongue twister. He nudged Sam. “Hey, did you know I am not a mother pheasant plucker, I’m a mother pheasant pluck—”

 

“Shut up!” Sam hissed, but he was also laughing, and the tension melted from him, and that’s all Dean had really wanted.

 

He winked and turned his gaze to the wall. Directly across from them hung the poster for _Metamorphoses_. It’d been a year since Dean had seen the show, but he knew exactly what he was looking at: Eros, blindfolded, kneeling with his white wings arching high above his back, reflected in the glittering water of the pool that had taken up the bulk of the stage. Dean remembered the actor, too, had made it a point to know his name because his performance had moved him so much. Castiel Novak, another scion of The Family. Too bad he was likely as much of a prick as the rest of them.

 

The door to music room five opened, and all noise in the hallway ceased. A beautiful woman left the room with a swagger in her step, flipping her long brown hair over her shoulder and treating the corridor like her personal red carpet.

 

“Dean Winchester?” asked an assistant, reading off her clipboard.

 

He stood, almost on autopilot. Sam grabbed his arm. “You’ve got this, Dean.” He nodded and squared his shoulders, walking through the gauntlet of heavy stares from all the people he was competing against. As much as he wasn’t expecting anything to come of this, he could still feel that desire rise up in him again, to perform, to do better, be the best.

 

When he walked into the room, he found he was a scant few feet from the table where those about to judge him sat. Chuck, the director, wasn’t here for this part, but there was the casting director, Bartholomew Boyle, a supercilious looking blond dressed in an expensive suit; vocal and music director Naomi Milton, a stony expression set on her face; and rounding out the trio was Michael Novak, stage manager extraordinaire whose hardline reputation as Chuck’s right hand man very much preceded him. All three were members of the great Milton clan, though Naomi was the only one who shared the name.

 

Their presence dominated the room, making it feel small even though it was big enough to fit a few guitars in their stands, various percussion instruments, and a black baby grand. The accompanist sitting at the piano was so young he looked like a kid, and generally gave the impression of a man very much trying not to be noticed.

 

Michael looked down at a paper in front of him. “Dean Winchester?” he asked.

 

“Yup. That’s me.”

 

Bartholomew sneered at his laidback tone, giving him a once over, and clearly finding his simple jeans and black t-shirt lacking. To be fair, he did look more like the techie he was than someone aimng to impress. Naomi scribbled something down with a fountain pen before even bothering to spare a glance at him. “A baritone, yes?”

 

“Yes ma’am.”

 

“And what will you be singing for us today?”

 

Dean waved his sheet music. “‘Why Should I Wake Up?’, _Cabaret_.”

 

Naomi and Bartholomew shared a look of mild surprise, but Michael, bored, gestured toward the piano. “Give your music to Kevin and begin when you’re ready.”

 

Kevin held out his hand and Dean gave him the music. “Where do you want me to start?” the kid asked, giving it a quick once over. Dean pointed out the spot and how he shortened the song for the audition, and positioned himself back in front of the three Miltons. In preparation Kevin straightened his spine and squared his shoulders and waited expectantly for a cue. Dean nodded, and the accompanist began to play. Mustering up the whole kaleidoscope of emotion he felt for this last performance, letting go of what he no longer had to suppress, Dean sang:

 

_Why should I wake up?_

_This dream is going so well._

_When you’re enchanted,_

_Why break the spell?_

_Drifting in this euphoric state_

_Morning can wait; let it come late._

_Why should I wake up?_

_Why waste a drop of the wine?_

_Don’t I adore you,_

_And aren’t you mine?_

_Maybe I’ll someday be lonely again,_

_But why should I wake up_

_Why should I wake up_

_‘Til then?_

The music dropped softly into its final bars and Dean held his last note until he could feel the song easing closed inside him, like a flower folding up its petals. Silence fell, and he blinked a few times, coming back to the present. Bartholomew, Naomi, and Michael were all staring and, if nothing else, paying attention. Beyond that it was hard to say.

 

Naomi cleared her throat delicately. “Thank you, Mr. Winchester. You may go.”

 

She and Bartholomew immediately set about writing some notes. Dean grabbed his music from Kevin, making sure to thank him – that kid had interpreted the music exactly the way Dean had needed of him – and walked out the door. While the other two paid him no more mind, Dean thought he felt Michael’s eyes on him as he left, but chose not to turn around to find out.

 

Back in the hall, Sam sprang from his chair. “How’d it go?” he asked, half excited puppy, half worrywart.

 

Dean thought about it and found he simply didn’t care. It had actually felt so good to release his strange and jumbled feelings through the song that it was like closure. After this, he thought, he could let go of acting once and for all. “Good. It was good.”

 

“Yeah?” he breathed, lighting up.

 

“Sam Winchester?” called the assistant.

 

“Yeah, Sammy. Break a leg in there, alright?”

 

“Thanks, Dean.” They hugged quickly. Dean made sure Sam’s nice white button up looked straight and neat, and sent him off to face the panel on his own. A minute later, when he heard Sam singing the final note of _Les Mis_ ’s “Stars” with all the force afforded to him from his giant lungs, Dean smiled, smug. Sam had this in the bag.

 

[ ](http://i64.tinypic.com/2ep6mpu.jpg)

 

Dean was so relaxed after his little bit of catharsis, and so confident of Sam’s success, the part he thought he’d struggle with the most didn’t bother him at all: the dance audition. He didn’t really dance anymore, unless you could count shimmying around the kitchen as he cooked. Sure, he did what he had to to stay fit and flexible, but stretching and simple exercise were hardly art. _Rent_ had required a bit of dancing, but not a whole lot given he’d played Roger. Years before that had been _Grease_ , but he hadn’t done any of the more classical stuff since he’d been a kid taking lessons. Those hadn’t worked out well, and still stung him some. _Cats_ itself, though, sat somewhere in the middle between ballet and contemporary.

 

And yet, Dean felt loose and limber after slipping into a tank and some comfy pants (all black), and fell easily into the habit of swinging his limbs around, getting his blood flowing. The dressing room (bulb-lined mirrors and all) was full of some other guys who, like Sam, were bursting with energy born from both nervousness and excitement. He trailed behind them as they left the room together in a flurry of activity and genuine – and not so genuine – wishes of luck. Dean let the noise wash over him; no need to learn names when you have no future in the business. He’d never really been the stereotypical loud and obnoxious theatre kid anyway. They reached the stage to find the ladies already waiting, buzzing with the same energy as the men.

 

The lights had gone down over the house, so beyond the first couple rows the seats were doused in darkness. Out of this inky shadow oozed the British tones of, he could only assume, the infamous choreographer known by the name of Crowley. He wasn’t a Milton, but much like with Bobby in the past, The Family was determined to keep the best talent around them, and even people who hated the man respected his artistry to the highest degree. “Spread yourself out so I can see you all,” he commanded, and the actors jumped apart like they’d been shocked.

 

Actors are generally pretty self-aware when it comes to their bodies, so with little confusion everyone carved themselves enough space so they wouldn’t be smacking their neighbors with wayward limbs. Still not leaving the darkness, letting his voice float up to them stark and disembodied, Crowley began to put them through their paces. He started off easy, seeing if they knew the names of basic steps. Dean felt the energy start to change in the air, some of the actors growing intimidated by the man they couldn’t see; others, like Sam, setting their jaw determinedly and not letting the tactics faze them. With nothing riding on his performance, Dean could see the humor in it and laughed a little when Crowley said, “Okay, sugar plums, let’s try something a little harder.”

 

A woman in a white leotard and her dark hair twisted into a perfect bun appeared out of the blackness and came onstage to lead them in more complicated combinations. Her strong nose and sharp cheekbones were striking even with the whole stage between them, and she carried herself with the holier-than-thou confidence every Milton radiated like a beacon. But when she demonstrated the first combination for them Dean couldn’t deny she was graceful, and extremely light on her feet, not making a single noise as she twirled herself downstage. His relaxed state helped him keep up as they moved from one combo to the next, and muscle memory made up for what his own skill level and annoying bowlegs couldn’t. Most everybody was huffing and puffing by the end, though, feet coming down on the stage as loud as elephants and sweat glistening on arms and foreheads, Dean included. Still, when Crowley finally dismissed them, and the lady in white melted back into the darkness without another word, Dean was relieved to be pas de done (“Come on, Sam, you love it.”).

 

The laughter and talking were boisterous and free as they all headed back to the dressing rooms, the auditions over for good or ill. A few of them might get called back. For most of them it was over, and they’d be on to the next audition in a few days, always searching for that big break. For Dean it meant returning to Bobby’s homey little shop, and quietly putting a bookend on his performance career.

 

[ ](http://i63.tinypic.com/2z4wizb.jpg)

 

A couple days later the community theatre’s car was ready to go, the old frame transformed into something worthy of “Greased Lightnin’.” You couldn’t even tell from close up that Dean had embellished some curves and subtly reshaped others. Bobby had slapped him on the back when he’d seen her, and gone to get the truck. The garage door to the shop was open, letting in the summer breeze, and Dean had the radio cranked high, jamming out to AC/DC while he bent to start hooking the car to pull it onto the flatbed. Then he felt his phone vibrating in his pocket. He wiped his hands on his ratty jeans and slipped it out. When he saw Pam’s name flashing on the screen, he debated not answering – no one liked rejection, even if they were expecting it – but he flipped his phone open at the last second. “Yep.”

 

“Hey there,” she said. “Clear your schedule for tomorrow.”

 

“Uh.” His stomach twisted at the sudden burst of butterflies. “Why?”

 

“Callback, bright and early. Paradise, 8 o’clock.”

 

He walked over to the stereo and flicked it off. In the corner of his eye he saw Bobby look up at him from across the shop. “Sam, you mean. Sam made callbacks.”

 

“Oh he did,” she said with a deep chuckle, “and so did you.”

 

“Are you sure?” His heart was really pumping now because this was not supposed to happen, _this was not supposed to happen_.

 

“Yes, and I already told Sam so no weaseling out of this one.”

 

“I don’t know, Pam,” he said, looking desperately around the room for inspiration, an excuse, any excuse.

 

“All you have to do is show up and sing a little with your brother, Dean,” she said, more gently. “You’ll be fine. I wouldn’t have let you audition if I didn’t know you could handle it.”

 

“Shit,” he muttered.

 

“I mean it. Show up, be your gorgeous self, and you’ll be _just fine_. And Dean?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Call your mother sometime, would you?”

 

He huffed. His mother was the last person he wanted to talk to right now. “Whatever you say, Pam.”

 

“Whatever I say, sure,” she echoed, probably knowing exactly what he was thinking. “Get rest and take care. Eight o’clock. Bye now.” She hung up.

 

Dean snapped his phone closed in a daze and looked at Bobby, who was waiting to hear what it was all about with his eyebrows raised high. “I, uh, I made callbacks.”

 

Bobby snorted. “What, is that supposed to surprise me?” he said, turning back to the designs he was fiddling with on the table. “Idjit.”

 

[ ](http://i64.tinypic.com/2ep6mpu.jpg)

 

Sam had been even less sympathetic, wearing an “I told you so” smirk on his face all evening and into the next morning. Chicago was loud and awake for rush hour, but once they slipped into one of the side doors of Paradise, a hush drew over them. There were far fewer people in the building, so noise traveled. The brothers would have found their way easily to the room where callbacks were being held even if they hadn’t already known the layout, from all the voices alone. Men were talking and warming up, some still out in the hallway for a few more deep breaths before the plunge.

 

They were all baritones, Dean figured, given that he and Sam had been called at the same time, and his old costar Victor Henrikson was chatting with someone just outside the doorway. He glanced up at the new arrivals and did a double-take before his face broke out into a surprised smile. “Dean Winchester, as I live and breathe,” he said, pulling him in by the hand and slapping him on the back.

 

Dean returned the gesture, not realizing until that moment how much he’d missed him, the Collins to his Roger in _Rent_. “Good to see you, man.”

 

“It’s been awhile, where’ve you been? We all figured you and Ellie ran off together.”

 

“Oh, uh, actually she went home to her mom. I’ve been in town, doing tech stuff mostly.” Dean moved on before he could ask any more about it. “This is my little brother, Sam.”

 

Victor shook Sam’s hand. “Little brother, is it?” he asked, making a show of looking up.

 

“Believe it or not,” Sam said.

 

“Well, good,” said Victor. “Glad you’re both here. I like a little competition at a callback.”

 

Dean took the bait, the old one-upmanship they’d shared when working together flaring back up. “Oh, you think you’re competition, do you?”

 

“Damn right, Winchester.”

 

They let the back and forth carry them into the room. Kevin was by the piano with the assistant that had checked them in the first day, sorting through music. Bartholomew, Michael, and Naomi were all there, standing in a circle and talking with a short man in a well-tailored dark suit who, judging by his voice, could only be Crowley. No Chuck, then. Of the actors there were about a dozen all told. But with his brother and his friend on either side of him, Dean’s apprehension felt far away and something in his shoulders loosened. It wouldn’t be hard playing along and putting on a good face to reflect well on Sam (he wasn’t naïve enough to think that as brothers, sometimes how people perceived one of them colored how they saw the other). That’s what he was really here for.

 

“Alright everyone, we’re going to get started,” announced Michael. “You will each get a packet with a selection of music. Naomi?”

 

The musical director sat down in the middle chair of the folding table they’d brought in and folded her hands atop her notes. “We’ll start with half of you,” she said. “‘The Old Gumbie Cat,’ I think, Kevin.”

 

Kevin nodded and settled on his piano bench while the squirrely little bearded man rushed to hand out stapled photocopies to all the actors. Some men grabbed them and immediately started flipping through the pages, not giving the assistant a second glance. Dean murmured his thanks at his turn, giving the guy a little smile, since he looked a bit more stressed than the situation warranted for someone not actually on the chopping block.

 

Sam, Dean, and Victor were all in the half of the group shunted toward the wall, while the other six men stood in a line and waited as Kevin’s piano imitated the horn introduction. When they began to sing, Dean understood the genius of Naomi’s method: with six men it was easy to hear when one of them went off pitch, who was good at sight reading for those who weren’t familiar with the music, and for those who were familiar, there were some markings on the music that changed the notes, slightly, to see who was paying attention.

 

Naomi stopped them after the first verse, and so the callbacks continued. Sometimes they sang in groups, other times individually, but not always everyone got a chance with every song. Dean and Victor both sang a verse of “The Rum Tum Tugger,” though Sam did not; Dean was not called up to open “The Naming of Cats,” though the other two were. The five people sat at the table were silent and inscrutable as they listened, though now and then would fall into quiet conversation, Naomi turning to Bartholomew and Crowley on her right, or Michael on her left (the twitchy assistant sat on Michael’s other side, but didn’t seem to say much).

 

They were most of the way through the selections in the packet when Michael interrupted Naomi halfway into announcing “Mr. Mistoffelees” as the next song. His whisper seemed to catch the no-nonsense woman off guard, and they whispered back and forth for a while, Bartholomew sometimes chiming in, causing the actors to fidget and side-eye each other. At length the music director cleared her throat. “Sam and Dean Winchester? ‘Old Deuteronomy,’ please. Sam, you may open the song.”

 

The brothers shared a look but said nothing as they took places in front of the table, the five of them sitting still as solemn judges of a high court. Everyone had already taken turns singing the song in small groups, but it seemed someone wanted to hear them alone. Dean took it as an excellent sign for Sam. It was perfect they’d chosen Dean to sing with him, too, because if there was any song from _Cats_ they’d sung together more than any other, it was “Old Deuteronomy.”

 

One of the reasons they loved it, especially as their voices dropped, was that it was square within their vocal range: a duet for two baritones. The characters seemed to fit them too; Munkustrap and Rum Tum Tugger, the song’s narrators, were considered brothers in many productions. But more than that it was beautiful in a way that none of the other songs in the musical were. Before Dean had ever known that the original stage production was designed to look like an old junkyard, the song about the venerable old cat made Dean think of what the English countryside might be like. It was habit now to imagine ambling along a path lined with trees and flowers, turning a corner to come upon the old vicarage, and being humbled to glimpse the legendary Old Deuteronomy himself. The ancient cat would be sunning himself on top of the crumbling stone wall with vines creeping up the side, looking back at him with bright, wise eyes. Webber had composed the journey to start softly with quiet reverence, and build beautifully into joyous dream.

 

Dean closed his eyes as Sam began to sing, putting himself in that garden, and opened them just before his cue, letting the softness fill him and infuse his voice, smiling at his brother, singing

 

_And the village is proud of him in his decline_

 

with all the pride he felt for him in this, the beginning of his ascent. Sam’s eyes brightened when he saw him, heard him, a smile creeping up his own face so that when he took back the narrative, singing

 

_As he sits in the sun on the vicarage wall_

 

he could almost have been basking in it too. They then fell perfectly into the refrain, voices rising and entwining like they’d always done, though today it held an extra richness.

 

_Well of all things, can it be really?_

 

They were discovering again what they’d always known as children: performing together was where they belonged.

 

“Thank you,” said Naomi at the end of the chorus, snapping them out of the moment. Sam startled a bit and Dean felt a sense of foreboding, which darkened when he saw Victor shaking his head at him in admiring disbelief. He struggled in tamping it down for the next ten minutes until they were finally, finally released.

 

[ ](http://i63.tinypic.com/2z4wizb.jpg)

 

Dean drove home to their apartment afterward, since neither of them had anything pressing to do. They didn’t speak; Dean grabbed them a couple beers from the fridge and they plopped down on the couch. After a minute Sam turned on the TV, but what was airing Dean was hard pressed to follow. He felt his phone burning in his pocket, certain every other minute that he’d felt it vibrate, dreading a call from Pam. Because that last song had felt _good_. And when it feels that good, it’s something you can’t hide, and even though he kept telling himself they got singled out just because of Sam, they could have paired him with anyone in that room. _They chose you, they chose you_ ran around his head in an anxious litany. He was especially nervous because if Sam got cast, which Dean was very certain of, he was equally certain that he wouldn’t say no. He wouldn’t be able to turn down the opportunity to make Sam happy by accepting, or the chance to be on hand to support him in his first professional venture. _The opportunity to perform again_ , the little voice added.

 

Dean was terrified at the thought of working with another pro company. His first and only experience had been with a production of _Rent_ a couple years ago. It’d been perfect timing; Sam was well entrenched in college and Dean was free to strike out more on his own. He already had a decent length of community and regional work under his belt, but with Sam’s prompting he’d auditioned for pro—and been cast. As a lead, no less. He may never have been ill like Roger but Dean found it easy to understand his character anyway: his love of rock, his struggles to make ends meet, the darkness of his thoughts, the way he fell head over heels for a girl who suddenly appeared in his life. Ellie was almost as wild as her character Mimi. Even though they clicked right away, at first he turned down all her invitations to go out and party. He was so used to needing to be home and being responsible for his brother. But while Sam still lived in their tiny apartment, he was off doing his own thing. Finally, tentatively, he accepted one of her invitations and then—Dean discovered he was still young.

 

They partied and drank and picked people up before tumbling into bed with each other. Dean couldn’t ever remember smiling and laughing so much in his life. They fit so well together, and he was so in love. Their offstage relationship informed their onstage chemistry, making it explosive, and when Roger and Mimi’s fights felt just as real as the good times, well, that was acting. Until one night Ellie didn’t show up, no warning, and her understudy had to jump in last minute. Later, when Dean had found her on the floor of her apartment crying. Halfway between drunk and hungover, she’d made her confession. Her mother was sick and all of this was just a distraction, her form of denial. Have fun acting, partying, fucking him, and she could ignore everything else. Dean had had no idea, and even though her lying to him for months smacked of betrayal he still loved her, offered to do whatever she needed. “I don’t need you, I need to go home,” she’d said. True to her word, she broke her contract and left Chicago the next day.

 

Dean had tried to be professional. For two weeks he kept performing but he was hurt, and confused about whether or not to follow her, and every night loving and watching Mimi self-destruct tore him apart. So he took a leaf out of Roger’s book and ran away, breaking his own contract. His mom had kept acting all through her divorce but he just couldn’t understand how she’d done it, how she still did it. He’d hopped into Baby, leaving Sam to the tender mercies of the El, and halfheartedly searched for Ellie. But she’d never told him how to find her, and mostly he slept in the crappy motels of his youth and drank at the same sorts of bars his dad used to favor. Only guilt over Sam and a terse voicemail from Bobby, telling him he was retired and opening his own place and he’d better see Dean there bright and early Monday morning brought him back to the city, tail between his legs.

 

It had been shitty, juvenile behavior, but at least his career had been the only one at stake. But now that Sam was a player in the game, Dean had to think about his brother’s career, too. What if he fucked up again, ran away again, what if—? He did his best to stave off the thought spiral, dragging him down in the old memories. Even if he did get cast in _Cats_ , and his curse held true, what did he really have to be scared of? The characters were just silly cats based on a little book of poems by T.S. Eliot, not people leading anything like a real life. If he could just manage to leave the past in the past, he’d be fine. (He’d thought that when pinch hitting for Sam’s _Angels in America_ , too, reasoning that getting burned by three costars was more than enough for a lifetime, but who could have expected Aaron, with his lopsided smile and soft hands and—)

 

Dean didn’t know if he could take several days of this waiting. But to his surprise he didn’t have to: he was just about to ask Sam what he wanted for dinner when his brother’s phone rang, paralyzing them both. Then Sam fumbled it out of his pocket, and looked back at Dean with wide eyes. “It’s Pam,” he said.

 

Dean swallowed. “Maybe she just wants to know how it went.”

 

“Maybe.” Sam took a deep breath and flipped open his phone. “Hi, Pam.” He pressed a button and her voice, tinny through the phone, filled the room.

 

“Hey, Sam, how are you?”

 

“Good. Uh,” he looked up at Dean, who nodded. “Dean’s here too. You’re on speaker.”

 

“Perfect,” she crowed. “Just the two cats I wanted to talk to.”

 

“Cats?” Sam asked. “Cats, plural? We—we both?”

 

“Congratulations.” Her grin was evident in every syllable.

 

Sam smiled, so bright and happy Dean thought he’d lift off the couch and hover. “Holy shit, holy shit, Dean!”

 

“I know,” he mumbled. Holy shit was about right.

 

“Which cats are we Pam you’re serious right now you’re serious _holy shit_. What are we, like, just in the ensemble, or—?”

 

“Oh please,” Pam laughed. “Chuck is much too smart for that. He did what any self-respecting director would have done in his position and cast you as Munkustrap, Sam. And Dean?”

 

Dean cleared his throat wondering when the hell the reclusive Chuck had even seen them. “Um. Yeah?”

 

“Rum Tum Tugger, pretty boy, was there ever any doubt?”

 

Dean’s plaintive “oh fuck” was lost when Sam wrapped a giant arm around his shoulders and pulled him in, laughing and thanking Pam profusely and accepting his role and Dean’s on his behalf, choking a bit on happy, relieved tears. Pam eventually signed off, promising to email more information later, and Sam brought up his other arm to give him a real hug.

 

“I’m so grateful, Dean,” he said. “I’m so glad you’re doing this with me.”

 

“Course, Sammy,” he murmured, squeezing him back just as tight.

 

He had to get through this for Sam. He had to.

 

[ ](http://i64.tinypic.com/2ep6mpu.jpg)

 

A couple hours and several beers later, Sam long since gone out with friends to celebrate, Dean found himself sitting at the kitchen table and opening his email on the shitty laptop the brothers shared. Like he’d both hoped and dreaded, a message from Pam sat in his inbox, bold and waiting to be read. He clicked before he could talk himself out of it.

 

_Heya boys,_

_I’ve attached a preliminary schedule for you to look at. The first cast meeting is next week Monday. I also had a talk with Ezra and she’ll be having her assistant call people when she’s ready to fit for each character._

_Most every other role has been cast, and I can’t tell you who else got in. Officially. But between you and me, here’s what I’ve heard_.

 

Whatever Pam heard was likely true; if any there were any theatre gossipmonger in Chicago to rival Bobby, it would be her.

 

_Josh Gardner was asked and agreed to play Old Deuteronomy._

Joshua Gardner, holy crap. Dean had grown up idolizing this dude. Guy had a list of Jeffs and Tonys a mile long, and an Oscar to boot. Dean wasn’t seriously about to be on the same stage as him, was he?

_Rowena MacLeod put up a fight, but eventually came to an agreement with the company. She’s your Grizabella_.

 

Rowena’s reputation was so fierce the news didn’t settle Dean at all. He’d heard she was the worst sort of diva in an age when a lot fewer people had tolerance for that kind of bullshit, but he had to admit he’d never seen a scarier or more convincing Lady Macbeth.

 

_Several roles were filled by the company, as you should expect. Luc Milton is playing Macavity,_

Now there’s more of what Dean expected. Of all the pompous bastards in the Milton family, Luc was by far the worst Dean had come across. He’d come into the shop a few times, when Bobby was still working at Paradise and Sam and Dean would hang out after school, and the way he’d talk down to the techies and, frankly, give him and Sam creepy fucking looks, well, if he hadn’t changed in the meantime this was typecasting at its finest.

 

_Gabriel Shurley is playing Mungojerrie,_

Dean had never met him, but he had seen him smarming around Paradise once or twice, snapping his gum, his friendliness a little too sharp to be totally sincere.

 

 _Hannah Novak is Victoria_ ,

 

Hm, primarily a dancing role. He wondered whether she was the woman who’d led their dance auditions.

 

_and Castiel Novak is Mr. Mistoffelees._

Oh god. Oh no. Dean didn’t want to work with Castiel, didn’t even want to see him. His performance in _Metamorphoses_ was so perfect, he didn’t want his impression ruined by whichever of the nasty Family attitudes he’d inherited. In the show, each of the ten actors had to play multiple characters in wildly different interpretations of Greek myths. Castiel had outshone them all, effortlessly switching from one to the next. First he’d appeared as Midas, a businessman in a nice suit with his hair neatly combed, schmoozing the audience like some ad exec or salesman, ignoring his young daughter even as she played beside him. He never realized her true worth until, caught up in his newfound gift, he accidentally turned her to gold and she was lost to him…

 

Only to reappear as Poseidon, emerging from the pool that took up the stage (he must have swum in through the hatches Bobby had built to another pool just backstage; the company had paid him handsomely for consulting on the construction). Even dripping wet and half naked he exuded all the strength of hurricanes, voice deep as the trenches, but gentled his power to calmly save a woman from slavery…

 

Then he was Orpheus, and twice the play told the tale: of how the love of his life, Eurydice, died on their wedding day, and how he was brave enough to march into the Underworld, and how his music so beautiful even Hades and Persephone were moved. They told him she could return to the land of the living with him if he trusted her to be behind him, if he swore never to turn around until they’d reached the rays of the sun, but he loved her, oh he loved her, and he couldn’t stop himself from turning to find her, reaching out for her again, and again, and again, only to lose her to the darkness…

 

Then Eros, another lover, Love itself. Blindfolded, bewinged, little more than a cloth wrapped around his hips, his immortality should have made him invulnerable, but even he could not escape his own arrows. He fell for a mortal woman, Psyche, though they were married under the condition that she could never look upon her husband in the light, both of them blind to each other to be equal in trust, and love. But poisonous lies were whispered in her ears, and she began to doubt him, and believed him a monster, and when wax dripped onto his chest from her illicit candle, oh how he cried out from its burn…

 

And at last, Midas again, a coda at the end of the show. Tea lights floated around the pool casting a dim light on the man so changed from when he last was onstage. Suit rumpled, tie backwards, trench coat dirty and torn, he’d traveled to the ends of the earth to find a cure and finally, finally his daughter moved, and hugged him as soon as she woke, a true miracle, and not a single person in that theatre wasn’t crying the same tears of joy as Midas cried, as Castiel cried, and it was the most moved by theatre Dean had ever been that he could remember, and he didn’t want that moment ruined for him.

 

Unless…was it possible for someone to be _that_ convincing in loving and losing, if he were the same as the others?

 

Dean rubbed his face and shivered, forcing himself to finish the email.

_They’re all damn lucky to be working with you._

Yeah, right. He’s sure she meant the other way around.

_Congratulations again, boys._

_Pam_

_P.S. – Call your mother._

Maybe it was all the beer he’d drunk, or just how stunned he still was by the reality that _this was happening_ , but suddenly calling his mom seemed like a friggin’ fantastic idea.

 

Dean didn’t speak to Mary Winchester much these days, outside the occasional text, and as far as he was aware Sam didn’t either. It’s not that he felt that John had been more in the right – Dean spoke even less to him once he moved out to Minnesota for good, and after he was a no-show at Sam’s graduation that didn’t look to be changing anytime soon – but Mary running off to New York after the divorce was a betrayal of a different sort. Dean didn’t blame her for being hurt, but he did blame her for leaving them behind after their dad had made a choice that clearly wasn’t _them_. And at least he’d had the excuse of a new baby, once their half-brother was born, but all Mary’d had was Mary Campbell’s career, and Sam and Dean had been left with nothing but each other. Dean was sure she could’ve taken as much comfort in her sons as they’d have taken in their mother. But what was done was done.

 

Besides, he could begrudgingly admit, if only to himself, that he understood her a little better now. He’d been so close to leaving it all behind after Ellie said she didn’t feel the same, that her plan had always been to go home and she thought they were just both having fun…Learning that someone you love isn’t as committed to your relationship as you are does something to you, and he can only imagine how compounded that feeling of betrayal would have been after all the years Mary had spent with John.

 

It’s just that it was still hard to reach out, from lack of habit. Plus, since she’d left them so young, she had a tendency to treat Sam and Dean like they were little boys instead of grown men making their own decisions, navigating their own way through life.

 

Though maybe, just now, he felt a bit like a boy who still needed his mom.

 

He dug his phone out of his pocket and opened it with clumsy drunk fingers. He squinted at the icon saying he had a new message and typed out a quick reply ( **Victor:** cast, motherfucker! **Dean:** back at ya, asshole). His thumb hovered uncertainly over the word **Mom** in his contacts; it fell almost by accident and then the phone was ringing.

 

“Hello?” His heart skipped a beat at his mom’s voice, which sounded soft and scratchy. He’d probably woken her up, shit. “Dean?”

 

“Yeah, I’m here. Hi, mom.” He pinched the bridge of his nose.

 

“It’s pretty late. Is everything alright?”

 

“Sorry, I can…call back…”

 

“Don’t you dare! It’s good to hear your voice, sweetie.”

 

“Yeah, you too.”

 

They both breathed into the silence for a moment. Then, a shade too brightly, Mary said, “Well, how are you? How’s Sam?”

 

“I’m fine. Sam’s fine. Um…” He trailed off, and imbibed a little more liquid courage. “I, uh. I guess Pam must have told you Sam and I tried out for the musical Paradise is putting on for next season?”

 

“She did. _Cats_ , right? Tell me how auditions went! Did you boys make callbacks?”

 

“Yeah, actually, uh,” spit it out Dean, for fuck’s sake, “we got cast. Both of us.”

 

“Both of you! Now I _have_ to come see it,” she teased. “In what roles, tell me.”

 

“Sam’s Munkustrap and he’s gonna kill it, mom, I’m telling you. You should hear the pipes he has on him these days.”

 

“His first professional role and he’s practically the lead, oh Dean! Tell him how proud I am! Better yet tell him to call me so I can tell him myself.”

 

“I’ll do that.”

 

“And you? Who are you?” she asked, all the pride and excitement of the PTA mom she never was.

 

He sighed. “Rum Tum Tugger.”

 

“Yes!” she yelled, and he could practically see her fist pump. “That’s my boy! You always were my little rock star. Remember when all you wanted for your eighth birthday was AC/DC’s greatest hits?”

 

Dean rolled his eyes, but he could help his lips turning up into a rueful smile. “Yeah, I remember.”

 

“Hmm.”

 

“Hmm what?”

 

“You don’t sound too happy about this, sweetheart, he was your favorite Cat as a kid. Is something wrong?”

 

Like she’d flipped some kind of switch, tears welled up in his eyes. He ran his hand down his face and stared at the ceiling, willing them to go away. “I don’t think I can do this, mom.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“I’m not like you. I can’t separate myself enough from the work. And…I’m afraid it’s going to all come crashing down around me and I’ll pull Sam down too and all his hard work will be ruined, and…crap, mom, you should see the cast list, no way I’m good enough to be onstage with these people.”

 

“First of all, Dean Winchester,” Mary said, “Chuck Shurley would not let you within a mile of that stage if he didn’t think you were more than capable. And Sam’s career will be based on his own work, so don’t you worry about him. And Dean, are you listening?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Good, because this is important. I’m glad you’re not like me. I get my priorities mixed up, I know that. It’s only recently Bobby and Pam mentioned some things about after I left that I…I’m not sure of everything that went on but I hope someday you’ll tell me. All know is I should never have assumed John wouldn’t treat his own sons the way he treated me. I’m sorry, Dean. That’s my fault. That’s on me. So I know you’ve sacrificed a lot and I heard when you stopped acting before it had something to do with a girl? Maybe your dad never stopped me and I think whatever happened with her shouldn’t stop you, but even if it does, I thank my lucky stars every day that you aren’t like me, Dean. You’re better than me and you deserve better.”

 

“Mom,” he protested, wiping at the tears he couldn’t keep from falling.

 

“Say you understand, honey.”

 

“Yeah. I get it.”

 

“Good.” She sniffed, and Dean wondered if she felt half as messed up as he did right now. “Do you like performing? Do you like being onstage? That’s the only question you should be asking yourself.”

 

He nodded, even though she couldn’t see. “I don’t know anymore, but I think…I think mostly I’d really like to perform with Sam.”

 

“I’d like that too, honey, I can’t wait to see it. It’ll be just like when the two of you used to put on little shows for your dad and me in the family room, do you remember? Now tell me about these other actors that have you so worried.”

 

So Dean told her about Joshua (“Send him my regards, won’t you?”), Rowena (“Hmph.”). and the Miltons, especially Castiel Novak (“I only ever saw the Broadway production, but you really make him sound like something.” Dean shut his trap). After they talked a bit longer, Mary sighed. “I need to get to bed sweetheart, will you call me again soon, and tell Sam, too?”

 

“I will, mom.”

 

“I love you, Dean. It was good talking to you. But I wish we were in the same place because more than anything right now I want to hug you.”

 

“You too,” he said, and hung up the phone without pointing out who was at fault for it.

 

[ ](http://i63.tinypic.com/2z4wizb.jpg)

 

Despite Sam’s eagerness, Dean was able to drag his feet just enough so that the brothers were among the last few cast members to arrive at Paradise for their first rehearsal. The doors to the house were open wide and the lights were up bright. Actors and crew mingled among the blue cushioned seats, mostly concentrated around a table still set up between the front seats and the lip of the stage. Sam bounded toward it and Dean ambled behind.

 

Under the watchful eye of both Michael and the equally formidable assistant director, Raphael Milton, who were standing onstage and talking to each other beneath the din, their underlings managed folders full of music and schedules and other information. As he waited in line for his turn to get his name marked off and receive the goods, Dean kept an eye out for familiar faces. Joshua Gardner was hard to miss; he was dressed casually but had that ineffable aura of control and confidence veteran actors had, drawing many of the younger performers into his orbit. Rowena was holding court, thick Scottish tones carrying loudly over everyone else’s conversations, eye-catching with her long red hair spilling down her bottle green dress. Victor was there, and Dean nodded to him. Luc Milton was the next aisle over and Dean made a note to avoid his creepy ass. There were a few people he recognized just from having seen them perform locally too, but he didn’t have long to look before a folder was shoved into his hands and everyone started making a show of finding a seat to settle in.

 

Dean tapped his knuckles on Sam’s chest and nodded his head to several rows back. Sam didn’t even put up a token protest, though he clearly wanted to sit closer to the front; being several inches taller than most of the cast, it was only polite not to block their view. Dean graciously sat in the second seat in, though, so Sam could stretch his long spider legs out into the aisle without getting too cramped.

 

They’d barely sat down when the cast grew quiet. Raphael wandered a bit stage right while Michael took the lead down center. He solemnly opened his arms and looked down on his audience with a smile that even from his distance Dean saw was patronizing. “Welcome, everyone, to _Cats_.” The assembly clapped, a few people whistled, and a couple wiseasses actually cat-called. Dean just thought it was absurd that he was announcing a show like _Cats_ with such gravity, like he was about to start mass or something. A glance at his brother confirmed he felt the same and they quickly had to face back front before they started laughing. “In your folder you will find the schedules for rehearsals: dance rehearsals, voice rehearsals, group rehearsals, and individual as well. You will find timelines for being off book. I tell you now that tardiness will not be tolerated. Attending rehearsal unprepared will not be tolerated. Anything less than your best will not be tolerated. Is that understood?” The mood dropped so quickly you could practically feel the horror of a couple dozen people imagining their career die at a single bad word from a Milton, any Milton. The theatre got so quiet you could hear the buzzing of the stage lights.

 

Dean leaned over into Sam’s space. “Guy really knows how to liven up a room, huh?” he whispered.

 

“Shut up!” Sam hissed, elbowing him twice for good measure. Dean slapped him back, both of them fighting the giggles. A dude with a messy thatch of dark hair sitting a couple rows in front of them twitched at the noise.

 

“That said,” Michael continued, still in his measured, resonant sermon voice, “our company at Paradise Theatre is pleased to welcome everyone, newcomers and veterans alike, and may our journey together be fruitful, and elevate this art we call The Theatre.”

 

“Amen,” said Dean, just loud enough for Sam to hear, and they stifled their laughter all through the next round of applause. In fact, Dean was wiping tears from his eyes so he didn’t notice at first that the anxious assistant from callbacks was shuffling his way to center stage.

 

“H- hey everybody!” he said. There was a stark difference between him and the two Miltons next to him: short where they were tall, bearded where they were clean-shaven, and in baggy, regular clothes where they wore professional and fitted outfits. “I may be the director, but you can just call me Chuck.” He gave them an awkward little wave.

 

“Hey, Chuck!” a guy shouted.

 

“Yeah, hey, hi, Gabe! It’s been a while. How’s it going? Is that a Dum Dum?”

 

“What the actual fuck?” Dean said, a little louder than he meant to. Chuck had been there the whole time, hiding in plain sight. “What a manipulative little shit!”

 

Sam scoffed in agreement.

 

Thankfully the exchange slipped under the radar of most everyone, as Gabe was being far more entertaining, but the messy head of hair turned around to reveal light skin, a sharp jaw, and a glare so scathing it could have been classified as a lethal weapon. Had it been anyone else Dean would’ve shrugged it off, but instead it dealt a staggering blow to his stomach, which had dropped to the ground and was probably halfway to China right now. He would recognize that striking face anywhere. Great. The one Milton – or Novak, as it were – in that entire cesspool of a family he actually had hope for, and he’d already made a bad impression. So much for making nice with Castiel Novak.

 

He slouched further into his seat and stewed, and stopped paying attention halfway through Chuck’s telling a story about a cat that belonged to his ex-girlfriend Becky. Dean only snapped back into it when Ellen, lighting designer and longtime friend of Bobby’s, stepped onstage and unerringly set her sharp eyes on them, in that scary mom way she had about her. She always did have some freaky sixth sense for when Sam or Dean was about to get themselves into trouble. Other major members of the crew were introduced: aside from Naomi and Crowley there was the set designer Balthazar Milton, costume designer Ezra Moore, and of course Bobby’s replacement as TD, a laidback, skinny little dude with the incongruously pompous name of Garth Fitzgerald IV. More than half of these people would go down in history as some of the best to ever grace the business. This was the real opportunity Sam had somehow dropped into and Dean had to help him make the most out of it. So he tried to forget Castiel and the stiff set of his shoulders, because who cared about him or anyone else.

 

This was a job, and he had work to do. And work Dean would.

 

After Chuck said his piece, the crew dispersed to work and the cast trailed after Naomi to one of the music rooms. It reminded Dean a bit of high school choir, with risers in increasingly taller rows and panels along the walls and ceiling to better the sound. No chairs, though; Naomi clearly expected her singers to stand. She didn’t give the company any reason to need them anyway. As soon as everyone had arrived and arranged themselves on the risers – Sam and Dean drifting naturally to the back, used to being among the tallest in any given room – Naomi gave Kevin a signal, and warmups began. After this they jumped right into the prologue of the show, a five minute jam-packed number extolling the virtues of cats. There was no slacking off there: the song began by weaving solo phrases together from each cat beginning, of course, with Munkustrap (Dean couldn’t help but swell with pride at the idea of Sam kicking off the show every night). Then the cats came together to sing like a traditional choir, blending and harmonizing and holding notes out at the top of their respective ranges. It was a grueling first rehearsal, Naomi’s ear catching every hint of imperfection, where there was nothing but the music, the rests, and the deep breaths they took to power their voices. When Naomi dismissed them it broke their intense concentration, so they were all surprised to find they had gained themselves an audience of one in the meantime.

 

“Oh, I’m liking this already,” said Ezra Moore.

 

The entire room was an exercise in grayscale, white walls and gray panels and black instruments; even Naomi’s fancy pantsuit was gray, and Kevin was dressed in black pants and a white button-up like he was already at a concert. Not Ezra, Queen of Costumes. Her red skirtsuit – which complemented rather than clashed with her red hair – was a welcome burst of color. The costume designer was a strong, no-nonsense presence, but with a warmth that Naomi lacked, and was unable to penetrate with her stiff, raised eyebrow.

 

The chatter that broke out after her statement was instantaneous. The cast hopped off the risers to grab their things, groups of friends old and new clumping together to discuss the show and maybe have a drink, because the real work was starting tomorrow. Ezra simply stood and watched them leave, until Sam and Dean, that is. “The Winchester boys,” she said, reaching up to first pull Sam’s head down, then Dean’s, giving them each a kiss.

 

“It’s good to see you, Ezra,” said Sam.

 

“Well, absence does make the heart grow fonder, doesn’t it?” The reproach was honest, but there was a hint of a smile about her red lips. She never was the type to hold grudges. Too practical. It didn’t stop Dean from feeling guilty, though.

 

“Sorry,” said Sam for the both of them, though at least he had his schooling as an excuse.

 

“Don’t worry about it, sonny, I’m here for business, not a guilt trip,” she said. “You two have time for measurements?” When they nodded she gave them a real smile before turning to march out the door. “Come on, then, you know the way.”

 

It was true enough. Whenever they weren’t getting underfoot in Bobby’s shop, or monkeying around in the catwalks, they were wreaking havoc down in the basement. Not that Ezra had any more trouble handling them than Bobby or the Harvelles, but she had whet her teeth in the fast-paced New York theatre world before Paradise had lured her away to Chicago, and she seemed to appreciate a little chaos now and then.

 

The costume department was not a single room, but a network of sewing machines, storage, fabrics, and costumes from productions past. There was a room for dyeing and creating original textiles, a room usually buzzing with several machines as Ezra and her assistants sewed costumes from scratch, rooms with shelf upon shelf of bins of scrap fabric sorted by texture and color, or shoes by size and type, or hats, or jewelry. The most impressive room of all, and Sam and Dean’s favorite when playing, was the costume room. It was immense, and everything in it was white, which caused the costumes to pop hanging on their moving rack—and moving it was, like if Willy Wonka had opened a dry cleaner’s, you pressed a button and the entire thing went into motion, costumes appearing and reappearing from the floor and ceiling, snaking around the room to get within easy reach. And if you were small enough, like the boys used to be, you didn’t need a key to unlock the door into the large, and far less shiny, warehouse area. You just hitched a ride on the carousel rack and squeezed through, and there was no better nursery for the imagination: costumes for every size and gender and time period, in every color, in a place where no one else could reach you. Except Ezra, of course, and once Dean grew up a bit, he understood that she indulged them.

 

But she didn’t lead them to any of those rooms. Instead she brought them into her office, though it looked nothing like what a business man might call one. It was larger, for one, about the size of two bedrooms. There was a desk in the corner, a couple of filing cabinets, an old record player already turning a jazz record, and several bookcases bursting with volumes on fashion history and fabrics. The rest of the room was designed to be cozy; bulbs and lamps gave the basement room a yellow light softness, the furniture was in dark browns and golds, and the big squishy couch was almost smothered in pillows. There was a sewing table with Ezra’s personal old Singer machine, and a couple dress forms stood half-draped with fabric in the corner. On the far side of the room stood an enormous, full-length three-way mirror, framed in the same dark wood as the rest of the furniture. They’d spent quite a bit of time in here as kids, too, when Ezra would teach them how to sew, usually in the guise of complaining that she needed smaller fingers to help her do the work. A flat out lie, of course, the woman was a master of her craft, but by the time Dean had figured it out he’d gained some decent skills, so. Why not keep learning?

 

“Alright,” she said, picking up a tape measure from her sewing table, “get stripping.”

 

Dean laughed, more at the immediate blush that stained Sam’s face than anything. Generally speaking, theatre cured you of modesty pretty fast between dressing rooms and quick changes in the wings, with crew ripping costumes off and squeezing you into the next one. Dean himself, despite his poor luck with actual relationships, had also had enough one night stands under his belt to put him at ease in the buff, besides which last fall in _Angels in America_ he’d made his naked onstage debut and under Sam’s direction, no less. Stripping down to boxers for Ezra, who’d probably seen more bodies in her lifetime than Sam and Dean ever would combined, was a piece of cake. Anyway, he’d lost his ability to blush long ago.

 

They kicked off their shoes, shrugged off their shirts and pants. Dean graciously let Sam go first, and watched in amusement as Ezra led him over to the mirror. “Now I hear congratulations are in order for your graduation,” she said, poking Sam in the spine to remind him to stand up straight.

 

“Summa cum laude,” said Dean proudly.

 

Sam ducked his head. Ezra tsked and knocked his chin back up. “Not that any of us had any doubt. Though,” she said, lifting Sam’s arms up to either side in a straight line and pulling her measure across, “I _am_ surprised you grew up to be such a strapping young man – look at that wingspan! – you were such a small kid.”

 

“A total shrimp,” Dean agreed, leaning an elbow on one of the dress forms and grinning as his brother’s blush deepened.

 

“And skinny, too. Now look.” She curled the tape around Sam’s upper arm and jotted down another measurement in her notebook. “You’ve got some muscle.” Sam whined in embarrassment. Ezra winked at Dean from behind Sam’s back, but she let off her teasing to finish her work, getting all the waist, torso, and leg numbers she needed. “Alright, get your clothes back on. Come here, Dean.” The brothers switched places.

 

“Hey Ezra,” Sam said, popping his head back through his t-shirt, “do you mind if I snoop a bit through the costumes? It’s been a while.”

 

“Go ahead, but do me a favor and stay off the rack, will you? You’d bring the whole thing down these days.”

 

“And don’t try on any of the dresses,” Dean called after him as he bounded off, “you might stretch the fabric now.”

 

“Screw you, Dean,” Sam called back.

 

Dean chuckled as he caught the finger Sam tossed him via the mirror, then settled down as Ezra wrapped the tape around his neck. “You know it’s not him I remember waltzing around in that pink satin number,” she said.

 

Shit. “You, uh, saw that did you?” He swallowed down the spike of anxiety that flashed through his chest.

 

She gave him a _look_ before moving onto the next measurement. She knew everything that happened in her domain, of course. “You pulled it off. Might need to let out the shoulders a bit these days.” He huffed a small laugh, glad she wasn’t making a big deal out of it. Not that seeing a man in a dress – or a teenager, as the case was – would faze much of anyone involved in theatre, but he could still imagine what his dad might have said if he’d known that’s what was happening when he left them behind on his road trips. What he might say even now.

 

“We’re proud of you too, Dean,” Ezra said after a few more measurements. “This is a good role for you.”

 

“Thanks,” he mumbled, trying to avoid his own face in the mirror.

 

“I know old Singer keeps you busy, but you always had the bug, kid, plain as day. After seeing _Angels_ I could see that hasn’t changed a bit.”

 

“Wait, you saw Sam’s show?”

 

“We all did, son, what did you expect?” Dean knew that “we” meant all the old tech and design crew, who lived in each other’s pockets so much during the season that they were practically one organism. He must have looked as stricken as he felt, because Ezra dropped her brusque manner and let some uncharacteristic softness shine through. She chucked his chin up, though much gentler than she had with Sam. “You’re part of the family too, Dean. You and Sam. Our wayward sons. And now both of you are back.” She gave him another kiss, right on the apple of his cheek, and let him go. “Now I’ll tell you what else that show was good for, it gave me a nice look at your birthday suit.”

 

Dean laughed for real, glad the emotional moment was over. He wiggled his eyebrows. “Was it as good for you as it was for me?”

 

“Flirt,” she retorted, but her eyes were twinkling. “Mostly it made me want to put you in an actual suit. With your lines, you’d look divine in a three-piece.”

 

“Name a time and a place, sugar.”

 

“Watch your mouth, wise guy.” She looked her notebook up and down, rereading what she’d written. “What it did was give me a good idea of your measurements, and I was pretty close. You have a few more minutes?”

 

“Sure.”

 

“Good, I want you to try on what I mocked up for you.” She put her notebook down on the sewing table and lifted what had looked just like a scrap of black fabric, but turned out to be a unitard. “You’ll need a dance belt.”

 

A catsuit. Apparently the new production wasn’t straying _that_ far from the original. “Fresh out of jocks, sorry.”

 

She gave him a sardonic look. “You know where they’re kept.”

 

He sighed, mostly for show. “Yeah, yeah.” He decided he didn’t need to put on his pants to go look; there was no one around to see him wandering in boxers but Sam, and he saw that every morning so he’d just have to deal.

 

“And pick the right size, you kook,” Ezra warned him as he walked out the door. “I’ll know if it doesn’t fit!”

 

“I ain’t got nothing to be ashamed of!” he shot back, chuckling as he rounded the corner. The storage room where Ezra kept extra tights and underwear was just a couple rooms down the hall. He slipped inside and flipped on the light; the shelves were floor to ceiling and wall to wall with clear plastic bins neatly labeled in her flowing, old-fashioned script. It took him a second to remember the drawer he needed, but there it was, the one titled _Dance Belts_ , right at pelvic level. Ezra’s sense of humor. He opened it and quickly scanned the size ranges listed on the special dance jocks still in their packages. “Heh, package,” he said, though his wit was lost on the empty room. He tore open his chosen belt – a couple shades darker than his skin tone, but it would do for now– and dropped his boxers. So maybe he still had _some_ modesty. No reason to fly free in front of Ezra if he could change here and now.

 

After he’d slipped on the jock and adjusted himself accordingly, he slammed the drawer shut, crinkled the empty wrapper in his fist, and popped his boxers up off the floor with his toes, catching it with his free hand. He wasn’t paying much attention when he went to leave the room, and walked right into a wall.

 

A warm wall.

 

“Oh,” it said in a deep voice.

 

Wide eyed, Dean looked up at the voice’s source, and saw a face. In parts, at first: a full, pink mouth, stubbled cheeks, strong nose, very blue eyes, wild dark hair _oh god no_.

 

Castiel Novak blinked once. “Hello.”

 

Holy crap, Dean had not been expecting that, one shock after another, Castiel’s real voice was the ocean rough tone of Poseidon _oh god what_.

 

Then Castiel’s fingers flexed, and Dean knew they did because when they’d bumped into each other he’d caught him round the waist and for a split second Castiel’s hands were exerting pressure on Dean’s bare skin _oh god why_.

 

Castiel seemed to realize it the same time, and immediately let go and stepped back. Almost warily his eyes flicked down to where his hands at been, and then widened when he noticed Dean’s state of dress.

 

Or undress, as it were.

 

“Um,” said Dean. “Hey?” It was breathier than he would’ve liked.

 

Castiel himself was wearing navy slacks and a white dress shirt, business casual like the rest of the Miltons Dean had seen that day. He licked his lips. “You dropped your…”

 

“What?”

 

Slowly, Castiel knelt and grabbed his boxers and the plastic wrapper. He looked up at Dean, and Dean looked down at him, and when their respective positions registered a tiny, traitorous voice in his head said _oh god yes_.

 

Castiel cleared his throat and quickly stood, practically thrusting the items into his hands. For a moment Dean’s mind went blank and he couldn’t remember which pair of boxers he’d chosen to wear that day and was irrationally concerned they were his Batman ones, or the joke pair Sam had gotten him as a gag gift a couple years ago, with a cartoon squirrel declaring, “These nuts are mine!!” But when he chanced a glance all he saw was good old green and blue plaid.

 

“I heard noise,” blurted Castiel. Dean whipped his head back up. “I thought—Ezra.” Then his eyes narrowed. “What are you doing here?”

 

“Well, what are, what are _you_ doing here?” Dean retorted.

 

He looked confused. “This is my family’s building. I belong here.”

 

That finally snapped Dean out of inaction. Of course. _There_ was the asshole. He rolled his eyes. “Right. Should I get out the red carpet?” He didn’t have time for this. He shoved down his disappointment and brushed past Castiel, not caring that he was giving him a full show of his ass, but for the belt’s thong-like back. _His_ building, as if Dean hadn’t spent a good chunk of his life learning its secrets.

 

“You took your time, Winchester,” said Ezra when he sauntered back into the room. “Ah, look what the cat dragged in.”

 

“Hello, Ezra,” said Castiel. “Am I too early?”

 

“You’re fine, kid. Put that on,” she added, handing Dean his black catsuit. He started wriggling into it without giving Castiel a second glance. Ezra rummaged somewhere behind him. “I have your costume, too, or the start of it. I haven’t sewn any lights in yet. We’ll discuss it when I’m done with Dean, here.” By the time she got back to him he was working on getting his arms into the long sleeves. Ezra helped him settle the stretchy fabric over his shoulders and pulled him back in front of the mirror. “Not bad,” she said. “Turn around.”

 

When he complied he saw Castiel, another black unitard draped over the couch behind him, deftly unbuttoning his dress shirt. His hands looked sure and made short work of the buttons, elegant despite their size. Dean recalled with a sudden sharpness just how much of his waist they’d covered. He’d only ever been with one man—not that he hadn’t _looked_ , it’s just that Aaron was the only one he’d ever taken the leap for—and that was probably only because he’d been high at the time—and Dean had liked it, just as much as with women though totally different—but Aaron had been a few inches shorter than Dean, his hands smaller than his, not really calloused at all, but Castiel’s hands—

 

Dean started when Ezra put her hands over the ghost of Castiel’s on his waist, and gently turned him back to face the mirror. “I need to find the perfect accessory to accentuate your hips. A spiked codpiece, maybe?”

 

That brought him back to the present. “What? No, you wouldn’t do that to me! Would you?”

 

She raised her eyebrows innocently. “Just seeing if you were paying attention.”

 

That wasn’t a no. “Please, none of that Vince Vincente crap. My Rum Tum Tugger is a real rocker, okay?”

 

“No glam metal. I’ll take that under advisement.”

 

“Please, Ezra!”

 

She finally cracked a smile. “You’re safe with me, kid. Now hold still while I pin you.”

 

Dean sighed, only partially in relief. At first he watched in the mirror as Ezra pinched his costume in certain places, expertly pinning so that she didn’t even graze his skin. When he looked up his gaze snagged again on Castiel. He was pulling his white undershirt over his head, and Dean got to see those thick dancer’s muscles flex—

 

With a dawning horror, Dean realized he _could_ still blush.

 

He stood stock still as Ezra put in a couple more pins, and moved only when she helped him carefully step out of the unitard so that he didn’t disturb any of them.  “All done, sweetheart. Don’t be a stranger, now.”

 

“Thanks, Ezra. I won’t.” He didn’t give her more than a fleeting smile, though. Castiel’s presence filled the room like the weight of judgment and he wanted nothing more than to put his clothes back on, find Sam, and get out of there. Though his clothes were on the couch, of course they were, and Dean tried to avert his eyes from where Castiel was bending over to put on his own costume. He edged around him, turned away as he slipped on his pants and his shirt, then grabbed his shoes without bothering to put them on. Before he left the room he couldn’t help but take one last look over his shoulder, and…realized he shouldn’t have been worried. Castiel had his back to Dean, now, adjusting the neckline of his unitard and already talking about it with Ezra. What made him think that Castiel cared about his presence at all? Dean didn’t matter, in the scheme of things, and a Milton legacy had more important business to occupy himself with. Once he’d known Dean wasn’t trespassing – like, what, a creepy flasher in the basement? – he’d ceased caring, and hadn’t even bothered looking at Dean in the meantime.

 

Dean may as well have been an annoying fly, for all Castiel thought of him. He kept it as a cold comfort, then, that the eyes he felt grazing his back as he went out the door were all in his head.

 

He didn’t even realize until he stripped down for bed that night that in his haste he’d left his boxers at the theatre. Oh well, whatever. At least there was no reason for Castiel to have noticed that, either.

 

[ ](http://i64.tinypic.com/2ep6mpu.jpg)

 

The next morning was the first dance rehearsal, and the entire cast was called. Dean didn’t bother dragging his feet today, making them more than fifteen minutes early, so they were surprised to find most of the cast already standing outside the studio clogging the hallway. “Are we late?” Sam fretted.

 

The biggest dance studio in Paradise was on the top floor. It was big enough to comfortably contain a full dance corps without being in danger of kicking each other. There was a decently springy marley floor and barres ran the full length of each wall, two of which were floor to ceiling mirrors. The side of the room along the outside of the building had windows from barre height up, looking out onto Lake Michigan. The wall adjacent to the hallway had observation windows, and today the curtains were drawn wide open.

 

Dean eased his way into the crowd which was peering inside the studio, enraptured. He recognized the woman who’d had her singing audition just before him, and sidled up to her. Bela, he thought her name was. Rumpleteazer. “What’s going on?”

 

“Oh, nothing,” she said, in an upper class English accent with the pompousness to match. “Just the Novak siblings.” She glanced at him and did a subtle double-take. After giving him a once over she deigned to give him a smile. “Crowley’s putting them through their paces.” She refocused her gaze inside the room. “They just might live up to their reputation.”

 

From outside, the music was too muffled to tell exactly what Hannah and Castiel were dancing to, but the style was all ballet. The siblings were utilizing the entire space, looking comfortable in their skintight dance gear that left nothing to the imagination, and absolutely no doubt about the perfection of the lines their bodies created. They were stunning together, passionate without being romantic, musical in their motion and utterly full of grace. With effort of will Dean forced his gaze away to scan of the rest of the cast; to a one they were caught up in the artistry and the silent story the siblings were telling with every step. The sole exception was Crowley, the only other person in the studio with the Novaks. His sharp eyes held no awe, only schemes.

 

But Dean couldn’t help but be drawn back to the dance itself, as idiotic and misguided as the proverbial moth to the flame. The brother and sister, both dark-haired, were so alike in appearance as well as in movement, and the effect they had together was beyond compare; they gave the illusion of floating, flying, all effortless— though Dean knew exactly how much work and sweat went into it from hard experience.

 

In the old days learning ballet had been de rigueur for stage actors even aside from musical-specific dance classes, and Mary Campbell had been no exception. Dean (and later Sam) had followed in her footsteps for a while, and he’d enjoyed it at first. Then puberty had come, and words like _fag_ and _fairy_ were insults that were dropped a hell of a lot in middle school, where everyone was trying everyone else on for size. His parents’ marriage deteriorated more and more, and John was finding less and less reason to accept Mary’s explanations of how they would grow up strong and tall and self-assured. He wondered, loudly and often, why he should let his sons grow up sissies. And the instructors, well. They weren’t as nice to you once you were no longer a cute little kid just learning how to tondue. As Dean stared at Hannah, and particularly Castiel, and his long, straight, well-muscled legs, he could almost hear the little sighs Ms. Visyak made when trying to adjust Dean’s form, could just about feel the self-disgust he felt each and every time her eyes raked down one of his bowlegs, saying “Turn your leg” or “Straighten up” all the while knowing nothing would change, and not bothering to hide it from him.

 

In the end he didn’t put up much of a fight when his dad had refused to keep paying for the lessons, though Sam had thrown a tantrum for the ages. Dean still grew up pretty strong anyway, muscles honed from helping Bobby in his workshop or fixing cars with his dad at the mechanic’s.

 

But the truth was – and watching the Novaks was bringing this home in a way nothing had before – he did love dancing. It was like singing with your body, but double the release because your entire self was involved, stretching, moving, expressing yourself so purely in a way you never otherwise could. A way in which Dean hadn’t in a very long time. But specifically he loved ballet, associated it with his youth and his mother when she was actually around. God, did it burn him bad that he had the strength to be a good dancer, but all the will and practice in the world couldn’t give him the legs. Even if he worked at it every damn day, he’d never be as graceful, as elegant, as bright and beautiful as Castiel Novak now was, twirling his sister around the room, jumping with her, a jeté with such perfect lines that Bobby could have used him as a level in the workshop.

 

Abruptly, the Novaks stopped dancing. For a moment everyone was still; then a collective sigh rippled through the cast when they realized that Crowley had cut the music, unceremoniously ending the show. With a flick of his wrist he waved them all into the room, and the actors wasted no time bursting in, clapping and shouting and going up to shake the Novaks’ hands. Everyone but Dean, that is; he felt frozen, crystalized in that split second the whole world had ceased to move, paralyzed in the past with the hopes of his mother and the wariness of his father weighing on his shoulders, the memory Ms. Visyak’s sharp disappointment sending phantom pains through his thighs down to his toes. Holy shit, what had he been thinking auditioning for this show? He couldn’t do this!

 

His attention was drawn back to the present by a flash of blue. The dance room was milling with actors setting their water bottles against the wall and chatting excitedly. Only one figure was standing as still as Dean, and it was Castiel, staring straight at him through the window.

 

“Alright, you lot,” snapped Crowley. “Time to shut up and warm up.”

 

Dean flinched, but didn’t quite realize he was staring back at Castiel until the other man tilted his head in clear, though silent, question. Their gazes didn’t quite unstick until Hannah nudged her brother in the shoulder and he went to the head of the barre, clearly intending to lead them in their warmups. “Shit,” Dean muttered, and hurried inside.

 

Thankfully Crowley had decided he needed a little chitchat with the Novaks, and the rest of the cast was so buzzed that Dean’s weirdness went unnoticed. He hustled to take up a spot next to Sam, whose eyes were shining like he’d witnessed some kind of miracle. “Wow, they’re good enough they probably could dance professionally, don’t you think? They’re really something.” He shook out his ridiculous – though very much straight – sasquatch legs.

 

“Yeah,” said Dean. “Something.”

 

His lack of enthusiasm did not pass Sam by. “What’s going on, Dean?”

 

Fuck Sam and his nosiness. “He’s Mr. Mistoffelees.”

 

“Castiel? Yeah, and?”

 

“Yeah, and?” he mimicked snidely. “And I can’t fucking dance opposite him, jesus, Sammy, what do you think?”

 

“Crowley’s hardly going to make Rum Tum Tugger do a lot of ballet, Dean, come on.”

 

Dean shook his head and turned his back on Sam, standing in front of him at the barre and effectively ending the conversation. He kept his head facing forward, proud as a soldier, willing the music to start already so he could just forget the past several minutes and think of nothing more than relaxing his body and warming up before the real work began. But after a moment he felt a thin prickling along his skin, like someone, or everyone, was watching him, and years of hanging with rougher crowds in school and tougher neighborhoods in Chicago and dragging his dad out of skeevy biker bars in Bumfuck, America meant he could only ignore it for so long before instinct compelled him to look for the source. When he caved and scanned the rest of the room, his eyes locked, _again_ , with Castiel, who was standing at the barre perpendicular to Dean’s along the adjacent wall. And the motherfucker didn’t even break off looking. Who the hell gets caught staring and doesn’t have the goddamn decency to look away and pretend the staring wasn’t a thing? What was his problem, seriously?

 

 _What?_ Dean mouthed.

 

Instead of answering, Castiel just narrowed his eyes in confusion, like he couldn’t understand what reason Dean could possibly have to question him. But just then the music started, a piano sonata, he thought, and Castiel’s posture changed immediately as he prepared to lead the cast in their exercises.

 

Dean let the warmup soothe him. It was like riding a bike, and he’d never quite let himself go completely. The way Castiel led them, though, it was clear this was something he did every day, maybe even more than once. When it was time to turn around and hold the barre with their right hands, warming up their left side, Hannah was conveniently placed so that people in Sam and Dean’s part of the room still had someone to follow. Dean concentrated on her, instead of letting his eyes slide over to Castiel in the mirror. Mostly.

 

When warmups were done everyone spread out in the middle of the room to stretch properly. Crowley flicked off the music and went to stand in front of one of the mirrored walls. He was dressed in a black suit (bespoke, if Dean’s years in Ezra’s shop had taught him anything) with a black-on-black embroidered waistcoat and a bloodred tie. “Listen up, minions.” He looked down his nose at them where they were sitting on the floor. “This isn’t going to be your classic _Cats_ choreography. There will still be the contrast between modern and classic styles, yes, but you are not actually imitating cats. You will need to be aloof and predatory, cute or adorable at turns, but no scratching paws, or” – he sniffed – “personal grooming. You are not people trying to be animals, but animals discovering their humanity. I know some of you empty vessels don’t know what it’s like to be human, but let’s try, shall we?” Everyone nodded, as if anyone wouldn’t. “Today we’ll be working on movement as a group, but soon every single one of you will be doing individual character work. Which means,” and here Crowley paused, making sure he was getting paid all due attention, “that some choreography may change. Sometimes to fit what your character has become, and sometimes because I said so. Are we clear?” More nodding, though Gabe rolled his eyes so hard his head moved and Rowena made a big show of yawning. Crowley glared at her. “Good chat. You’ve got ten more minutes.”

 

Once they were thoroughly stretched, Crowley was true to his word. They spent the next couple of hours going through prompts and exercises to discover the physicality of their characters. There was always some difficulty in taking iconic roles and making them your own, especially so when audiences come in with their own preconceived notions. The chorus members had it a little easier, if they could separate themselves from any productions they’d seen and their vocals from what they were used to hearing on their recording of choice. Movement was a good way to do it; asking yourself simple questions such as _How do they stand?_ and _How do they walk?_ can help you discover how you want the character to be seen, but more importantly, how the character himself wants to be seen. In a show like _Cats_ , that was so heavy on dance and the feline physicality, this type of work was paramount and as Dean and the rest of the cast strutted and slinked and sweated their way to and fro across the studio, rehearsal finally felt _real_.

 

Of course, just because there wasn’t any dense language to get into didn’t mean that their whip cracking the day before hadn’t gotten Dean’s gears turning. Having to sing the prologue over and over again really drove home the lyrics, since every line was a cat listing what, exactly, it means to be a cat. What was interesting about the song, Dean decided, was how each lyric applied to all cats but was especially true of whoever sang it. This was particularly obvious in Sam’s opening line, _Are you blind when you’re born?_ All cats are blind when they’re born. This is the beginning of _Cats_ and also the beginning of cats. But since Munkustrap is the one _who_ begins, it shows he’s the leader of the cats; and since the line brings to mind the softness and vulnerability of kittens, it’s a clue that he is the one who knows and protects all the others.

 

So Dean felt confident internalizing other lyrics that weren’t his own: _Are you cock of the walk?_ Tugger was definitely that. _When you’re walking alone?_ Oh yeah. _Have you been an alumnus of heaven and hell?_ If any cat had a little heaven and a little hell, it was Rum Tum Tugger. _Dare you look at a king? / Would you sit on his throne?_ If anything embodied lackadaisical rockstar “fuck you” attitude toward authority, it was that.

 

And yet, if he was going to interpret the song in this way, there were things that Dean had never really associated with Tugger that he had to embody, too. _Duets by Rossini and waltzes by Strauss_ —so classic rock _and_ classical. A man – er, cat – with great taste no matter the trappings; Dean could do that. Both his parents had him listening to all kinds of music from birth, practically.

 

 _Were you there when the pharaohs commissioned the sphinx?_ Trickier. Tugger was an adult cat, but on the younger side; Dean was more or less going to play him as his own age. He wouldn’t be able to get across the same sort of history and wisdom, as say, Old Deuteronomy, but the sly knowingness of a sphinx? There might be something in that. His cat’s behavior was a riddle to others, at any rate—though Dean needed to keep unraveling it.

 

 _Can you ride on a broomstick to places far distant?_ Cats can _see in the dark_ and are _queens of the night_ and that darker side is Tugger through and through, late night concerts and loud performance and rock’n’roll. But the other part is the magic, the _mystical divinity of unashamed felinity_. Magic, then, is as inherent to a cat as any other part of its nature…so even though Mr. Mistoffelees is the actual magical cat (Castiel on the other side of the studio, leaping so high he was practically levitating how the hell did he do that?! That’s not easy for a man of his size at all), Tugger had to have his own way about it him. Maybe not magic, per se…magic acts were just another kind of performance, and he was the Curious Cat, after all, and curious had more than one meaning. Ah, and as it said in his own song, _the Rum Tum Tugger is artful and knowing_ , so it checked out. Good, now Dean felt he was getting somewhere.

 

Time to think about his own lyrics then. In the prologue Tugger sings: _Can you say of your bite, that it’s worse than your bark?_ A particularly cat thing to say, Dean figured, a warning veiled as silly wordplay. An outright insult to dogs, too. It’s clever, taking an old saying and turning it on its head. These two dichotomies – dogs vs. cats and expected vs. unexpected – were as indicative of Tugger’s character as anything else. His song was full of “if not this, then that” situations ( _if you offer me pheasant, I’d rather have grouse_ ). There was more to it, though. The objects were arbitrary, Dean realized. Tugger would eat fish just as happily as rabbit if left to his own devices, no…The emphasis is on the if _you_ , then _I_. Tugger looks at the world through a lens of opposition, because _there’s nothing I enjoy like a horrible muddle_. He likes to _make such a fuss_. This contrary attitude epitomized Rum Tum Tugger. The threat and danger of his very first line was something Dean had to embrace, because Tugger was not one to back down from a conflict. That was incredibly rock’n’roll. No one accepts and explores the violence, darkness, and combativeness of human nature better than a rocker.

 

That’s not all a rock star is, though, because no one partied like a rocker, either. Rum Tum Tugger is in no way a villain. He might not be a leader like his brother Munkustrap, or share his responsibilities, but he doesn’t hesitate to point out how to rescue Old Deuteronomy _from_ the villain ( _You ought to ask Mr. Mistoffelees_ —what’s it going to be like working one on one with Castiel nodon’tthinkaboutthat). He doesn’t like conflict out of sadism. He likes to be where the action is, he likes challenge, he likes FUN. Tugger’s going to make life difficult for you, but not with any malice. Besides, a bit of tussle is a hop skip and a jump away from a bedtime tumble, and sex is nothing but fun. How to find the balance, then, between the darkness of his nature and the lightness of his attitude?

 

If Dean were to take his cues from real rock stars – which he damn well was, thank you very much – there were a lot of dudes to choose from. So many of them knew just how to mix their salty with their sweet. At least Dean could narrow his choices down right away, thanks to Ezra: glam rock was an absolute no-go. The original costume for Tugger was pretty reminiscent of “rockers” like Ladyheart and Twisted Sister (spiked collar but no spiked codpiece, thankfully). Dean’s Tugger wasn’t going to need such an excess of makeup and costuming to keep people’s interest. Most glam was all style and no substance, and shitty style at that. Dean wanted style that accentuated his substance. The character of Rum Tum Tugger was based on good old Mick, so Dean just had to put a little Jagger in his swagger. Can’t go wrong there. The original Broadway vocals had a lot of Elvis, so the swinging pelvis is implied. In the movie version (which Dean has, maybe, stolen from Sam’s room to watch once…or twice…) John Partridge plays Rum Tum Tugger throughout the show with a deceptively laidback quality, oozing the suave veneer and latent intent of a _Labyrinth_ David Bowie, or even Tim Curry’s Dr. Frank-N-Furter. But whenever he gets a solo he goes all out, highlighting the soul element of rock’n’roll, even putting some James Brown in there. And his hips, sweet sister of god, his hips.

 

So Dean tried it. He swirled and sneered around the studio, put a little Axl Rose “Sweet Child O’ Mine” sway into his hips, but it still didn’t fit quite right. The spotlight felt right, that was for sure, but when he thought of the original choreography, the lady cats squealing and pawing at him while he laughed and pushed them away—that’s what felt wrong. Dean’s Tugger did not feel like that kind of showboat. Plenty of rockers were probably assholes, true, but that’s not what Dean admired about them. Rock was also poetry, like Led Zeppelin; next-level artistry like The Jimi Hendrix Experience; the motherfucking jukebox heroes of Foreigner. So Dean’s Tugger could be a little like Robert Plant, able to seduce, but still be like Jimi Hendrix, who exuded sex appeal without ever bothering to try. Yeah, Tugger was definitely hot-blooded. Oh—not magic, Dean realized. Rum Tum Tugger had to be magnetic. The best concerts Dean’s ever been to, from arenas to smoky little Chicago blues clubs, had performers who could draw the entire crowd in so that everyone was immersed in each other as well as the music. Animal magnetism, yeah. Maybe his refrain of _And there isn’t any need for me to shout it_ and the like wasn’t false modesty at all. Maybe Dean could play those lines straight and matter-of-fact, saying “This is who I am, you never have to doubt it, and there’s no doing anything about it.” Fun? Yes. Devilish? Hell yeah. Polarizing? Comes with the territory. But always, always honest. Rum Tum Tugger is showing up to the Jellicle Ball and he’s here to have a good time, and screw the rest. Everyone was welcome to join his rebellion or not at their pleasure, but _he will do as he do do_. That was rock’n’roll. Dean had finally met his character.

 

He flashed a grin at the mirror, and Tugger curled his lips back, showing his teeth with relish. This show was fucking _on_.

 

[ ](http://i63.tinypic.com/2z4wizb.jpg)

 

Over the next few days, rehearsals continued apace. It turned out that Chuck had a very hands-off directing method, which was odd. Most directors were control freaks of one kind or another, but Chuck was only rarely seen when Sam and Dean were working with Naomi or Crowley, and never when they went to visit members of the crew. He didn’t announce his presence either; Dean would just look up to check his form in the studio mirror, say, and notice a figure sitting in the corner, scribbling feverishly in a notebook. Though if those who’d worked with him before were to be believed, “He likes to spout this ‘free will creativity’ crap, but he’s always watching, trust me.” Ellen’s words.

 

As strange as the little guy was, Dean found Chuck’s presence more palatable than his Michael’s or Raphael’s. Both the SM and AD were formal to the point of stiffness, even to their cousins and siblings. Michael stared very coldly in between jotting down staging notes, and Raphael exuded an aloof, holier-than-thou aura, like the actors were bugs he could squish and it’d be all the same to him. That attitude Luc Milton definitely shared, always striding around like he personally owned the place; Gabe was less on the “holier-than-thou” side than the “bugs it’d be fun to squish,” but at least he was a bit funnier about it, Dean begrudgingly had to admit. The staring seemed to run in the immediate family, though, because Mike’s little siblings Hannah and Castiel were in a permanent state of eyes wide and watching whenever they weren’t – and sometimes when they were – in character. The fact that their big blues were trained on Dean at least half the time was just something he had to learn to live with (“No I am not imagining it, Sammy, shut up!”).

 

For the most part, though, it looked like working with the Milton family was something they were going to survive. Sam was actually thriving, gaining confidence day by day, standing shoulders back and tall all the time, now, when he’d been used to hunching a little to seem less threatening to people. Dean couldn’t wait to see him kick Luc’s ass, goddamn. Er, in character, of course. And Dean himself was able to build upon his character work from those first rehearsals, and when it came time to discuss his thoughts in a one-on-one sessions with Crowley (who really wasn’t as intimidating as he’d like to be, especially after he’d overheard Rowena called him Fergus, fucking _Fergus_ oh my god), he’d actually given him a look of mild surprise, despite Dean’s halting, ineloquent explanations, gracing him with a “Not bad, Winchester. Let’s put those bowlegs to work.”

 

The morning he was to have a rehearsal alone with Naomi (and Kevin), Dean found he was a lot more nervous. She was definitely more imposing than Crowley, her praise not faint so much as just the absence of criticism. It was good, then, that he and Sam had dance rehearsal with Crowley first, which turned out to be more an exploration of movement for the duet portion of “Old Deuteronomy.” It was fun creating with Sam again, and Crowley seemed (grudgingly) impressed. Sam stayed on to do some work for “The Old Gumbie Cat,” and Dean was delighted to note with his big brother radar that a couple of the girls were giving his little brother the eyes. He looked forward to teasing Sam about it later, when they planned to meet in one of the small music rooms to practice after their respective rehearsals.

 

In the meantime, Dean was feeling more relaxed and decided to wander around the building like the old days. Unsurprisingly he found his feet had pointed him toward the shop, though the days of Bobby’s reign were long gone. Garth was pretty cool, though. The guy was the definition quirky and had a demeanor so happy he’d driven Dean nuts as a teen, but he grew on you, and really knew his shit besides. Dean figured he wouldn’t mind a visit.

 

Before he quite reached the shop, though, he heard singing.

 

It was a man’s voice. After a moment’s hesitation, Dean stepped back from the shop door and listened. It was nearby, though undoubtedly the techies couldn’t hear it with the bangs and drills and their own music going. Definitely close…Cautiously Dean slipped into the wings of the stage itself. It was completely dark except for the ghost light, a single beam of white shining down to silhouette a figure sitting cross-legged center stage.

 

 

There was no accompaniment; just the voice, singing something that sounded a bit like church music. And not the fun gospel stuff, either, but the old epic baroque shit, in Latin, Dean thought. The style was secondary to the voice itself, which was singular and clear, a baritone though with an impressive range on either end of the scale, and expertly controlled as it moved up and down the staff. It held the notes pure, with no excess in vibrato or unused air, flying up into the catwalks as if on an expressway to heaven. Seriously, this dude had the voice of an angel, and not the cutesy kind, either, chubby babies staring dreamily out from the edges of old paintings. He had the voice of a real one, like the statues in the lobby of Paradise come to life; it carried the full on terrifying beauty of an Old Testament angel, as likely to destroy as bring tidings of joy. Maybe a little of both.

 

Dean eased himself further onto the stage, itching to figure out who the singer could possibly be. Edging downstage but keeping far right, step by quiet step the man’s profile came into focus.

 

The singer was Castiel.

 

Dean started, meaning to hightail it out of there, but he tripped on his own damn feet and stumbled, scrabbling at a curtain to keep himself upright.

 

Cas snapped his mouth shut and whipped his head around, unerringly fixing on Dean. Dean froze, less like a deer in headlights and more like he’d just stepped on a landmine and if he moved, he was sure to die a bloody, explosive death.

 

“Hello, Dean,” said Castiel, in his earthy voice, such a contrast to the clear silver notes of his singing. It was even harder to reconcile now; Dean would never have believed it except his ears had just had ample proof that those two sounds did, in fact, emanate from the same voice box.

 

“Uh, hey, Cas. Nice, uh, nice voice. It’s so weird you can do that.” Fucking spectacular, amazing voice, holy shit. Nothing he’d heard in the voice rehearsals so far could compare. “Anything you can’t do, then?” _How am I in the same show as you?_

 

There was maybe a little bitterness in that, because Cas’s brow furrowed and his neutral expression creased into a frown. “What do you mean?”

 

“Well, you know. Sing, dance, act. Triple threat.” _Shut up, idiot, shut up!_

 

“Aren’t…all of us?”

 

“Um, maybe. But it is just _Cats_ , so, I mean, how good does everyone have to be?” _How good do_ I _have to be?_

 

Cas’s frown grew thunderous. “You’re saying that just because the characters are animals, that we don’t have to take this seriously? That T.S. Eliot has nothing deeper to say? Or is it just that you’re one of those people who dismiss Andrew Lloyd Webber’s music due to its popularity? What _would_ warrant your hard work, exactly?”

 

As Castiel spoke, Dean’s face flushed, at first with a shocked sort of embarrassment, and then with growing anger. Who the fuck did this guy think he was? How could he fucking sit there and say Dean hadn’t put any work in when he’d had his own role handed to him on a platter?

 

Before he could formulate a fittingly scathing response, a voice resonated from the darkness pressing in on the ghost light. “Castiel.” Steps sounded on the stairs leading from the floor up onto the stage, and Michael faded into the light. “May I speak with you before your rehearsal?”

 

And that was as good a reminder as any. Castiel was a Novak, and he was made of the same prickish stuff as all the rest of the widespread, and very possibly inbred, Milton family. Dean needed to stop expecting anything different. Castiel was not the sum of the characters he’d played, no matter how poignant his performance; he was just their instrument.

 

“Of course,” Castiel answered. He stood to follow his much older brother into the darkness, but not before throwing Dean one last look over his shoulder.

 

Dean wanted so badly to take a parting shot, but the reality was that this was his job, and more than that this was Sam’s job, and anything he said would reflect poorly on him, too. He bit his tongue instead. _I’ll show you my work ethic, asshole_. It was going to be a long show.

 

[ ](http://i64.tinypic.com/2ep6mpu.jpg)

 

That night, Dean dreamt.

 

It was actually less than a dream, at first. It was a memory. The night Dean had first fallen for Aaron Bass. The guy was a grad student, a couple years older than Sammy but still younger than Dean, and he had invited Dean over to his tiny-ass apartment to help him run lines. He had so little time to learn the show it just made sense, right? They’d sat on the small couch together, Dean reading Joe’s lines off a script and Aaron, who’d already memorized all seven hours of the role, tossing Louis’s lines back without ever taking his gaze from Dean’s face. When he sighed and stretched, revealing a sliver of his stomach, Dean zeroed in on it in the dream just as he had in real life; and when Aaron offered him some weed, he said yes.

 

Instead of packing a pipe or fetching a bong, he’d just opened the drawer of a side table and got out papers to roll his own joint. Dean watched avidly, and it seemed to happen more slowly, in the dream, his nimble fingers laying out the weed, his pink tongue slipping out to moisten the edge of the paper. The moue of his lips as they wrapped around the end, and sucked. The cherry glowing bright.

 

Aaron passed Dean the joint and Dean let their fingers brush, but couldn’t quite look back at him as he sucked in the smoke himself. He coughed some on the exhale – it had been a while – and when he finally met his eyes, Aaron was smiling. Not laughing at Dean’s decidedly uncool reaction, but happy, and more than a little knowing. Like Dean was cute and he suspected the feeling was mutual. Maybe Dean didn’t blush in the bedroom, but on a couch a few inches away from someone he liked, really liked, there was no stopping its warmth from spreading over his face. Not even in the dream.

 

“Oh, now this is life imitating art, isn’t it?” Aaron drawled.

 

“What do you mean?” Dean asked, voice already rough.

 

“You like me, don’t you? But you’re not sure about making a move?” Dean’s reaction was completely artless, turning his head away in denial before he could stop himself, and Aaron laughed. Amused, but not mean. Dean felt more than saw him scoot closer, the heat from his body intense in the minimal space where they weren’t quite touching. “Tell me something.”

 

When Dean looked back up at him, their faces were close, so close, and the weed had been good and yeah he was out of practice but this giddiness, this floatiness was something else entirely. “Hmm?”

 

“Are you like Joe?” Aaron asked. His hand not holding the joint reached up and slowly caressed his jaw, brought his thumb up to trace his bottom lip. His eyes followed the movement, then he lifted them to Dean’s, rich and brown and intent. “Never been with a man before?”

 

Dean’s blush deepened. “It’s not like I don’t—It’s just never come up—I’m not, you know, inexperienced—”

 

Aarons’ grin just grew wider and wider as Dean spluttered. He took a leisurely suck on the joint and held the smoke in his lungs, beckoning Dean over with his chin.

 

Dean shut up.

 

He leaned over the scant space between them, let the hand still on his face lead him, pressed their lips together. Opened his mouth and let Aaron breathe the smoke into him, and he didn’t cough this time, trading thick air and tongues and Dean wondered at his amazing lips, which you might mistake for a woman’s, and his soft beard, which you never would, and he loved it, forgot about his father, forgot about bullies, forgot about any reason at all he’d ever had not to sleep with men because Aaron was funny and talented and seemed to like Dean too, and Dean wanted this kiss to last forever, so he kissed and kissed and kissed in the dream, long after they’d had to come up for fresh air in real life, and as soon as Dean realized it he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t breathe, the smoke thick and cloying in his throat, hot and scratchy and surrounding him and Aaron was gone, had left him, left him behind just like everyone else, he was alone and he couldn’t see he couldn’t _breathe_ —

 

“Dean.”

 

A deep voice, rough, but not from smoke. A form coalesced in the haze: human, masculine, but not quite right. Ah, wings. The man-like figure had large, white wings, and as Dean’s vision cleared he saw the strength of his bare legs, the breadth of his shoulders, and knew it was Castiel, dressed as Eros. The wings were real, though, and they flapped and shivered, brushing away the remnants of the smoke. There was no white cloth around his head, though, to blindfold him, and Dean wondered why he didn’t turn to look, thought maybe he couldn’t or shouldn’t, and Dean wasn’t sure he wanted him to besides. But he’d been so alone, and so frightened, and he’d welcome anyone’s face now, even his. “Cas?” he asked, no more than a whisper.

 

Castiel turned haltingly, hesitatingly. He led with his head, chin moving toward his shoulder like molasses, twisting his torso like an afterthought, lifting his eyes from the ground to bore into Dean’s, and in that moment Dean knew, knew why Castiel couldn’t turn around because he was Eros but really he was Orpheus, and there was power in his gaze, a weapon in his regard that Dean felt like a sudden blow to the chest, and he fell.

 

Dean fell into darkness and scrambled and ran until he found himself in the haze again, lost and panicking, where Castiel still stood, beautiful, his back broad and his wings twitching, and Dean longed to feel the weight of his eyes and dreaded it equally. “Cas?” he gasped, and the angelic figure turned slowly, inevitably, and Dean fell, and he ran, and he found Castiel and he longed and he hated and he begged and Castiel turned to look at him again and again and again and Dean fell, oh, he fell and he fell and he fell.

 

When Dean woke he wasn’t sure what it meant, so he decided it didn’t mean anything at all.

 

[ ](http://i63.tinypic.com/2z4wizb.jpg)

 

Sam and Dean rehearsed, they learned, they _worked_. But even when they weren’t under Naomi or Crowley’s thumb, they found themselves spending their free time at the theatre. The old instinct to know every iota of the building drove them full force into finding out everything that had changed in the few years since they’d stopped visiting. Physically it was much the same, but different people had altered its atmosphere. So they hung out with Garth, who was always happy to see them and liked to ask Dean’s opinion on his building methods. Ezra continued her policy of turning a blind eye when they snuck into the costumes. They crawled around the cats with Ellen, where she put them to work hauling heavy lights to the amusement of her daughter Jo. She’d become Ellen’s head assistant since they’d last seen her, a professional instead of the little troublemaker they remembered. Or maybe she was just a bigger troublemaker these days, because she let them into the booth where Sam gleefully played with all the buttons on the brand new lightboard. It had been installed by a recent hire named Charlie, a wildly intelligent young woman who was in charge of dragging Paradise into age of avant garde technology use that was sweeping the theatre world. They got along so well with her that five minutes after they first met she was slugging them in the arms and declaring best friends.

 

But as much as they loved the techies, acting was their job and rehearsals were a train that stopped for no one. The day soon arrived when the entire cast was called to learn the choreography for “The Rum Tum Tugger.” This was going to be the first time Dean would be leading with the whole group, and he was surprised to find himself more excited than scared. The fears he’d had before and after getting cast were sloughing away like an old skin (he was forgetting, just like he knew he would), and in his eagerness he arrived at Paradise more than twenty minutes early, dragging Sam behind him.

 

They went straight to the studio with the idea of beginning warmups, but found it already occupied. Since the door was open they stepped inside to see what was going on and found only four people: Crowley, Gabe, Bela, and Castiel. “Mungojerrie and Rumpleteazer” without a doubt, and Gabe and Bela were fascinating to watch. With dance shoes on they were just about the same height, mirroring each other’s movements but in their own styles; Gabriel’s being cheeky and hers suave, they managed to meet somewhere in the middle at sly, self-satisfied criminal, and their antics had Dean smiling almost immediately.

 

There were boxes stacked in various heights around the studio, sturdy and wooden and black, clearly meant to mimic whatever the designer had mocked up for the set. The choreography used it to add dynamics to what was supposed to be one of the more impressive dance pieces in the show, and after a particularly awesome bit of parkour, Crowley nodded and clapped once. “Alright, lady and gents, let’s take it from the top.” Sam and Dean watched as Bela and Gabe stepped “offstage” and Castiel took his mark. His character narrated the song about the other two cats – some productions changed it so the cats were singing it themselves, though clearly Chuck had decided to take the classic route here – and despite himself, Dean was eager to see how he was going to play it.

 

Crowley pressed a button on the stereo. The song’s intro filtered through the speakers, a slight circus vibe to it, and Gabe and Bela crept and pranced across the floor while Castiel looked on, aware of their presence, but aloof—Dean thought he hardly had to act. As soon as the lyrics started (the singing was on the recording, so Castiel mouthed along), the two criminal cats noticed the third in their midst, but only smiled, as if all three of them were in on some great joke and they had no fear of his judgment. And though they remained separate from him, Castiel twined himself between them, almost in greeting, and as the story continued and _the area window was found ajar and the basement looked like a field of war_ , he seemed to send them off to go do their work, and urge the practically nonexistent audience (that is, Sam and Dean) to observe, no, keep a keen eye on the great spectacle. Given his character’s identity as a magician, the sequence had all the air of a ringmaster introducing his acrobat clowns and it was fucking brilliant.

 

Most productions of _Cats_ cast shorter men as Mr. Mistoffelees and had them play the part as a young cat. So casting six-foot Castiel was already an out-of-the-box decision. Many productions had the actor playing a completely different cat throughout the show and was only Mr. Mistoffeless when the script called for it, but they weren’t doing that either. Some even turned “Mungojerrie and Rumpleteazer” into a magic puppet show, but here the criminal team were clearly every bit as real as the cat telling their story. Still, Chuck, or Crowley, or even Castiel himself, was taking it further. Mistoffelees wasn’t some nerdy little dude whose magic show came out of some juvenile obsession. He was a master of his craft, a truly mysterious magician, and like any great illusionist he was simply hiding in plain sight (okay, definitely Chuck’s idea). For those experiencing the show for the first time, the reveal of his true identity later in the musical was going to be the sublime inevitable surprise every story strived for, the twist you weren’t expecting even though the setup had been there all along. The choreography was unpolished, and they had months of rehearsal left to go, but Castiel was magnetic, and hypnotizing, and the music ended and the dancers stopped and Dean was the one staring now.

 

By the time he was done savoring what he’d seen, Sam was already effusing how great it was, and clapping Castiel on the back. It would be weird for Dean to say anything now, right? So he just smiled at Bela as she left to get a smoke, flashed a thumbs up at Gabe, and let Castiel and Sam talk about…whatever they were talking about; Dean didn’t care.

 

“Mungojerrie and Rumpleteazer” took place directly after “The Rum Tum Tugger” in the musical, so Gabe and Bela weren’t going to be included in Dean’s fast paced number, instead getting a brief rest before their showstopper. Castiel, however, was included, so when Sam went to talk to Crowley, he came over to get his water bottle which, to Dean’s chagrin, was situated not too far from where he was standing. Dean decided to ignore him, until he saw that even as Castiel was gulping down his water, his eyes were flicked to the side, staring him down.

 

“Problem?” said Dean. Castiel said nothing, just looked. Under his regard, Dean suddenly remembered his dream, and a blush rose up so powerful he could feel it pouring down the back of his neck. “Well?”

 

Castiel wiped water and sweat from around his mouth. “Did you like the dance?” he asked.

 

It figured. He might not swan around the place being obnoxious like his cousins, but all Family members ever looked for was _reactions_. “What, you need some applause, or?”

 

Castiel squinted. Then, voice rich and unwavering as if pronouncing something from on high, he said, “I don’t understand you, Dean Winchester.”

 

What the fuck did that mean? Before Dean could ask the question out loud, a group of cast members burst in to the studio, noisy and laughing. Castiel took the opportunity to turn on his heel and march away. Dean took the opportunity to give him the finger.

 

The next few minutes saw everyone else arrive, and after they were warmed up and stretched, and Sammy’s too-long hair was tied neatly into a tiny ponytail, Crowley began walking them through “Rum Tum Tugger.” Rehearsal was always a different beast from performing, a different kind of work than the thrill of being onstage. Dean was dancing in the spotlight for the first time in years, in the glaring fluorescent lights of the studio where Crowley would sometimes sneer at the slight bend of his legs, mirrors laying bare his form from several angles—yeah, rehearsal was different.

 

But all the work he’d been putting in was paying off in spades, and Sam was with him every step of the way, and Dean Winchester never backed down from a fight, even against himself. So he drew his rock star swagger around himself like a cloak, and settled in for the ride. It wasn’t difficult, he was happy to find. It was easy to smirk and wink at all the actors, girls and guys, who were all so pretty and talented. And though he’d been dancing almost every day these last couple weeks, he was startled to realize he was _dancing_ , really dancing in a way that felt like himself, and even though he was sweating, and Crowley was being a picky bastard, everyone returned his smiles and Dean was flying high.

 

Until, that is, they reached the second verse. Not all the cats were supposed to be having fun; Tugger’s contradictory nature still had a bit of a polarizing effect. And of course, one of the few cats that were immune to his charm was Mr. Mistoffelees himself. There’s a brief rest before the verse begins, and Dean and Castiel ended up posed next to each other. Dean leaned an elbow on one of the boxes, still set up from the previous rehearsal, and Castiel pressed his back on another stack, standing all insouciant-like. In the beat of silence their eyes met, and Dean felt himself falter. Castiel wasn’t just wearing an unimpressed look, no, it was downright derisive, boring into him hard enough to burn. And as the recorded voice filtered in, _The Rum Tum Tugger is a terrible bore_ , Castiel didn’t bother lip-synching. He just raised an eyebrow as if to say, “Yes, you are.”

 

Dean was so taken aback he nearly missed his cue to push away and move to tease Meg, and extremely sarcastic actor who was also playing one of the unimpressed, or – seeing as Castiel was holding himself the ringleader against him – hateful. Dean did his best to push it all aside, reminded himself of his character with every step until rehearsal was finally over.

 

As soon as Crowley dismissed them with a wave of his hand, Dean felt all his dancing energy, all the good it generated, souring into defensiveness and anger. Not even bothering to leave the room, he ripped his sweaty shirt over his head and slipped off his shoes.

 

Sam sidled up to him, gulping giant moose slugs out of his water bottle. He tapped Dean lightly with the back of his hand. “What’s up with you?” At least Sam’s Munkustrap was amused during the song.

 

Dean took a quick lay of the land—Castiel was chatting with Crowley on the other side of the room, thick as thieves, no doubt listing all of Dean’s inadequacies and what they could do to make up for them. He turned back to Sam. “Are you serious?” he hissed.

 

“Uh, yeah, Dean. I thought it went great.”

 

“Of course it did,” he retorted. “I’m awesome.”

 

Sam rolled his eyes. “So…?”

 

“ _So_ ,” Dean mocked, “Castiel.”

 

“What about him?”

 

“Really?”

 

“What?”

 

“I’ll tell you fucking what, Sam, is he staring at me right now?”

 

Sam’s forehead crinkled in confusion, but he dutifully glanced over Dean’s shoulder. “Uh…yeah. He is, actually.”

 

Dean felt the rage crest in him like a wave. “I knew it,” he spat, twisting his shirt in his hands. He needed to get out of here. He stalked off to the changing room. “You coming?”

 

“Yeah, in a minute, geez.”

 

Dean breezed past the rest of the cast, beelining to his locker. He changed quickly as he could, shrugging on a new shirt and lacing up his boots in swift strokes. Sam moved a lot slower, chatting with their castmates and Dean sighed impatiently until he took the hint. When they were finally, finally ready to leave, Castiel walked in just as they were trying to walk out. Novak – inevitably – settled his big, judgy eyes on him, but Dean was ready and met them with a glare of his own. Castiel frowned, his face quickly darkening.

 

Fucking good, Dean thought.

 

Baby was parked in a garage on the other side of the street, and Sam waited until they’d crossed it to ask, “So what’d you do?”

 

“What do you mean, what did I do?”

 

“To Castiel. He and his sister are actually pretty nice, but you guys seemed kind of grumpy toward each other today.”

 

Dean turned his glare on Sam and yanked open the door to the car. “Are you shitting me right now? You think that’s my fault? He’s a fucking asshole, dude.”

 

“How so?”

 

“He stares at me all the time, for one.”

 

“Well—”

 

“And he said that I’m not taking my role seriously. What the fuck does he know?”

 

Sam frowned as he buckled his seatbelt and chewed that over while Dean started the car and backed out. “When did he say that?”

 

“Before rehearsal the other day. Not taking it seriously, my ass! I might not be as good as you but it doesn’t mean I’m not going to fucking work.” He zipped onto the road and pressed on the gas with prejudice. “Guy has a stick up his ass for real. It’s a wonder he’s still so bendy.”

 

“Oh you noticed that, did you?” Dean didn’t like the leer on Sam’s face, not one bit, and decided ignoring him was the better part of valor. After a minute Sam sighed, capitulating. Natch. “Is that what he really said?”

 

“What?”

 

“Word for word? You’re not taking your role seriously? You’re sure he didn’t mean something else?”

 

“What other way can that possibly be interpreted? Dude’s an asshat, I’m telling you, Sammy.”

 

“Well if he said that, then he is. But you should let it go, Dean. There’s no way he could think that after today’s rehearsal.”

 

“Are kidding right now? Did you not see the nasty looks he was giving me?”

 

“What, during the song?”

 

“Yeah, dude.”

 

“Dean,” said Sam. “He was acting.”

 

“Whatever,” he replied. Sam couldn’t be convinced, so what. Dean knows what he saw. Castiel might have everyone else fooled, but not him. Yeah, Castiel must think himself so clever singing about tricksters and thieves when really, he was the biggest huckster of them all.

 

[ ](http://i64.tinypic.com/2ep6mpu.jpg)

 

For another week, Dean thankfully never had to deal with Castiel without the rest of the cast as buffer. Neither of them said a word to the other, and everyone went about their work. But now that they had most of their character work done, they started rehearsing the end of the show in earnest and that included “Mr. Mistoffelees,” the song about Castiel. The song Dean had to sing about Castiel.

 

To make matters worse, the day he had singing rehearsal for the song with no one but Castiel, Dean put some morning hours in at Bobby’s shop. He’d gotten so into sanding down some columns to make them look weathered that he was just about riding the line of being late. He was still in his shop clothes, a dirty shirt and pants covered in paint splatter, and he was sure a cloud of sawdust hung heavily about him. When he finally got to the music room where Naomi, Kevin, and Castiel were already waiting, he was out of breath and out of sorts.

 

He dropped his bag and shrugged off his jacket a little more forcefully than necessary. No one said anything as he fished out his music, which was folded and crinkled at the edges. He couldn’t find a pencil, though, and still they didn’t say anything, nothing in Dean’s ears but his own harsh breathing as he scrabbled through his bag, and he could feel his ears and the back of his neck burning up when Naomi at length let out a little sigh.

 

Suddenly a pencil appeared right in front of his face. Dean froze. “Take it,” Castiel rumbled.

 

Dean looked up into his deep frown, brows drawn down over his eyes, so clearly disgusted with Dean and his disappointing comportment, and his shitty, untrained singing and dancing but he had no choice, Dean snatched the pencil out of his hand and smiled. Think of Sam’s career, think of Sam. “Thanks, Cas,” he said.

 

Castiel’s eyes widened, face relaxing out of its frown. “You’re welcome.”

 

Dean let his smile slide into a smirk.

 

“Shall we begin?” said Naomi, and the two men dutifully set their music down on the stands she’d set up near the piano, and Kevin played scales to warm them up.

 

Since today they were more concerned about learning the nuances of the new musical arrangement rather than really acting, Dean was able to maintain his veneer of pleasantness without saying a word except to acknowledge Naomi’s notes and mark them in his music. All the while he was seething as he sang the lyrics, letting their meaning sink in. Really, he thought, Mr. Mistoffelees was just as much of a little shit as Rum Tum Tugger, if not more so; Dean’s cat liked to be a contrary bastard, but Castiel’s was the one stealing shit and not coming when his family called for him. He just pretended it was magic like the puffed up arrogant shit he was. Like Castiel was. So perfect casting, really.

 

Dean and Castiel exchanged no more words, even after Naomi dismissed them. Dean simply nodded his goodbye to the room at large, tossed his stuff into his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and strode out the door. Yeah, Dean would be able to get through this, no problem. He’d just have to ignore Mr. Pissed-offelees and he’d be fine.

 

He had some downtime before his next rehearsal, but not enough to go home or back to the shop, so he walked down the hall and turned a corner to find a practice room. Sam had already agreed to meet him here to get a little more work done, so he didn’t bother to close the door when he found one empty. No one was around anyway.

 

The room was bare but for an old upright piano, its bench, and a couple of chairs. Dean tucked his things into a corner and sat down at the piano. He hit a few notes to see whether it was in tune (this was Paradise, of course the piano’s in tune, unlike the shitty practice rooms on Sam’s old campus), and settled down for a little “November Rain.” Dean wasn’t often in the habit of playing piano, and there was no point to it, really, he thought, looking at his hands, scarred and roughed up and with crap permanently embedded in his fingernails from working at the shop. Sam was a much better player, with long-fingered, musician’s hands. Not to mention he gave more of a shit about it. As long as Dean could sight read his music, that was good enough by him.

 

There was a noise out in the hallway, and thinking it was footsteps, Dean stopped playing. Was Sam here? He cocked his head to listen: nothing. The theatre, though nicely remodeled, was old, and so something in the walls was probably settling, Dean figured. Shaken out of his mood, though, when he went back to playing – his hands drifted to the keys almost of their own accord – he started out softly with a little “Hey, Jude.” His mother used to play it for Dean all the time, and before he ever learned to read music, he’d begged her to teach him. Instead of saying he was too young or he had to wait, she just…did. And seemed happy while doing it.

 

He hummed the lyrics at first, then sang them under his breath. Habit won out though and he began to sing in earnest, putting the pauses and inflections where he remembered his mother doing so. He knew this song backwards and forwards, and even though his hands fumbled through things these days, on this song, they never dropped a note. And while Dean was no Paul McCartney, his voice wrapped around the words like an old friend. It was comforting like that. Easy. No matter how many times he sang the song he always lost himself in it, so he was grateful to be alone; it made him too vulnerable to let anyone else see or hear him like this, though Sammy had heard it often enough it was okay if he walked in—which was exactly what he did, during the fourth iteration of the _na, na, na, nananana_. Sam did him the courtesy of a quick knock on the doorframe.

 

“Heya, Sammy,” Dean said, cutting himself off. He lifted his legs above the bench and twirled on his ass to face the other side of the room.

 

“Hey,” he answered, but was looking off back the way he came.

 

“What?”

 

“Nothing. How was rehearsal?” Sam stepped in and closed the door behind him, tossing his stuff next to Dean’s.

 

“Peachy,” he said.

 

“That’s it? No new chapters in the ongoing saga of how weird you think Castiel is?”

 

“Other than he’s an alien that can’t communicate like a normal human being but still thinks he’s superior? Nope. What you wanna work on?”

 

Sam let the conversation be directed, and took a seat at the piano bench. He could sight read better than Dean and had no trouble concentrating on his singing while he played; Dean stood over his shoulder, an elbow resting on the piano so he could see the music, too. Without another word they settled into the routine they’d developed after their mother had left: Sam sang, and Dean was both coach and cheerleader, acting as sounding board and director at once.

 

“No, no, did Naomi tell you to take a breath there?”

 

Sam rolled his eyes. “No, but she didn’t tell me not to.”

 

“That’s probably because she was paying more attention to the other losers. Your gigantor lungs aren’t that gigantor.” Dean fished a pencil out of his pocket and made a little breath mark. “Take it here and see how that feels.”

 

Sam started the verse over and Dean closed his eyes so he could listen better. He twirled the pencil in his hands, traced all its beat up bumps and grooves, the bit of metal at the end, the worn down eraser. It wasn’t until Sam ended the verse (“Did that feel better?” “Yeah.” “Good, ‘cause it sounded better.”) that he found it strange—this wasn’t his pencil. Dean always lifted his pencils off Sammy, who bought those slim black mechanical ones. Whenever they ran out of lead Dean liked to switch them out and let Sam do the reloading. But this was old school, one of those yellow No. 2 deals, sharpened down to 2/3 its length, and bitten all to hell. If Castiel had not handed it to him personally, Dean would’ve found it hard to believe it was his. Not perfect, poised Castiel. The fact that he’d have such a gross habit – and Dean was a bit grossed out, though his hands had admittedly touched far worse – made Cas seem more…human.

 

Dean imagined Castiel, alone in another of the theatre’s practice rooms, squinting at his music and nibbling on his pencil, hair stuck up every which way like a hedgehog and making that displeased little huff that Dean was all too familiar with—it was fucking adorable, is what it was, and Dean didn’t like it. It didn’t jibe with what Castiel was like in reality. Sure, the dude might be taking the show seriously, but he didn’t have to worry about it making or breaking his career. Nepotism would get him everywhere, while Sam had the entire production sitting on his shoulders, and a bright future that could be snuffed out like a candle with a single negative word whispered by the wrong person.

 

Sam grabbed a water bottle from his bag. Dean slipped the pencil back into this pocket and settled his weight back on his feet, crossing his arms, positioning himself over his little brother like a wrestling coach in the corner. So Castiel thought he was the greatest performer in the cast, did he? Well, not on Dean’s watch. “Back to work, Sammy,” he said.

 

[ ](http://i63.tinypic.com/2z4wizb.jpg)

 

Dean tried to keep up the attitude, stay psyched up because with voice practice now including the second act, well, Crowley was headed there with the dancing, too. So “Mr. Mistoffelees” dance rehearsal it was. Now it wouldn’t just be Castiel getting up in Dean’s face for a moment; he would be dancing in everybody’s face, and Dean would literally be singing his praises as he did so.

 

Crowley wanted to work with the main players before bringing in the whole cast, tailoring the choreography to what magic happens during rehearsal. So today it would just be Dean, Castiel, and Joshua, their Old Deuteronomy.

 

When Dean got to the dance studio, he found he was the last to arrive. At least he was dressed more appropriately today, in a white tank and black dance pants. He gave Castiel a stiff nod in greeting, which was duly returned, and shook hands with Joshua, who was already settled in on a chair, content to watch until his character’s reentrance at the end of the piece. “How are you this evening, sir?” Dean asked. Joshua got the honorific because the veteran actor actually deserved his respect.

 

His hand was warm and his smile warmer. “No need to ‘sir’ me, Dean. I’m an actor, same as you.”

 

Dean flushed, pleased but trying not to be too obvious about it.

 

“Alright, boys, enough fraternizing,” said Crowley, strolling into the room in yet another bespoke suit, the only person in the studio to never break a sweat. “Over here, squirrel, let’s get started.”

 

At first the rehearsal was fine. Dean was nervous, yes, to have the full attention of Crowley, Joshua, and Castiel, but he knew his character well enough now to disappear into him, and as long as he hit his marks, he got fewer snarky comments from Crowley and wasn’t drawn forcefully back into himself and his less than stellar dancing figure.

 

But when Crowley decided to move on to the second iteration of the refrain, it was time to add in the cat in question: Mr. Mistoffelees. Crowley took each of them through the basic idea he had in mind, Dean downstage with the mirror as the audience, and Castiel finally revealed as Mr. Mistoffelees, sneaking in from upstage while everyone sings about him. Come to bask in the glory. Dean wouldn’t be surprised if they were also given roses to toss on him in adoration, too.

 

There were only a few beats between the end of the refrain and Mistoffelees taking up his own narrative for a few lines. But it was just enough for their characters to share a moment. And when their eyes did meet, there Novak was, with that supercilious look on his face, like his aloof character but worse, looking down his nose at Dean, and his character, and Dean couldn’t quite mold his face into a genuine, surprised, happy-to-see-you smile.

 

But then the moment was over and Castiel took downstage center.

 

Dean stepped to the side and watched him take instruction; it seemed he and Crowley had already discussed some of it, so he picked it up twice as fast as Dean, no doubt making him look like an idiot in front of Joshua.

 

Castiel only ran through his verse a couple of times before Crowley pronounced it “good enough to be going on with,” and that he wanted some visuals for the next two sections: the chorus including both of them, and the bridge in which Mr. Mistoffelees is able to rescue Old Deuteronomy from the evil clutches of Macavity, which basically amounted to a dance solo.

 

“Here’s how we’ll begin,” said Crowley, and Dean stepped cautiously back onto the floor. This was Cas and Dean, mano a mano, but there was no music yet, just Crowley walking them through the steps, clapping the beat as they ran through a couple different sequences, the choreographer limiting himself to only terse comments in-between.

 

But then the music was on, and there was neither Crowley nor Joshua, nor even the mirror where they should have been checking their form; there were only Cas’s judging eyes and perfect poise, and Dean’s determination to prove him wrong. Dean mouthed along with the soundtrack:

 

_And not long ago, this phenomenal cat_

_Produced seven kittens right out of a hat…_

Pause.

 

_And we all say:_

At those words they swung their feet into the chorus, circling each other, trading moves like a challenge, never breaking eye contact, and—

 

“Stop. Again.”

 

No further commentary from Crowley, so they refound their marks and waited. The music began; neither of them sang along; they stood still as statues until their cue, and again, they each tried to make their steps more precise and pleasing to Crowley, each one more perfect to prove that their style was the best.

 

The music cut off. “Again.”

 

And again, and again, they ran through the few measures, and Dean forgot about Joshua, patiently waiting his turn, forgot about Sam, and putting on a good face for the sake of his future, forgot about Crowley as anything other than a disembodied voice that controlled the rules of the game they were playing; he saw nothing more than how they were both heaving against their sticky, sweat-soaked tanks, the way they kept one-upping each other, pushing harder and harder every time their eyes met, galvanizing them, reaching and stretching farther, higher, faster—

 

“ENOUGH.”

 

Dean was torn so quickly out of the zone he nearly stumbled. Castiel looked just as dazed, blinking rapidly. Crowley straightened his jacket and picked up his notes, gathering them and tossing them into his briefcase before snapping it shut. “Now that you have the template I’ve created memorized,” he said, “you can make up for wasting my time, and Mr. Gardner’s.” With wide eyes Dean and Cas both turned to look at Joshua, still sitting on the other side of the room, a neutrally pleasant expression carefully arranged on his face. When they looked back at Crowley he gave them a cold smile. “I don’t know what macho, aggressive beef there is between you two, but you’d better resolve this little catfight or the dance is never going to work. So, if you do care about keeping your roles, you both can stay here and rehearse until you figure it out and DO YOUR JOBS.” The protest on Dean’s lips died at the outburst. Crowley was red in the face. “Are we clear? Good. I’ll be back after a leisurely dinner. I’m sorry you came out for no reason, Mr. Gardner. There’s no planning for incompetence.” And with one last glare at Dean and Cas, he stalked out of the studio.

 

Dean stared at the door as it swung shut. He could feel his face burning with embarrassment, but mostly anger, and an insidious shame that someone like Joshua Gardner had witnessed his humiliation…and a lingering fear that Crowley would make good on his threat and get him fired, and that Castiel would back up his play, because of course he was the untouchable one. And what would that mean for Sam? His brother had only asked him to audition because he’d wanted his big brother’s support, but the reality was – and probably always had been – that Dean has only ever held Sam back.

 

Neither Dean nor Castiel moved as Joshua slowly rose from his chair and gathered his things. Instead of heading straight for the door, however, he took a detour to where they were still standing side by side, panting and sweaty.

 

“I believe what he meant to say, boys, is that the story was lost amid your differences,” he said. “The cats aren’t here to squabble. After almost an entire musical in which each cat’s individuality is celebrated, two of the most disparate characters join together to unite under a common cause. The…antagonistic contest you’ve turned the dance into isn’t keeping in spirit with the music. Do you understand?”

 

Dean nodded dumbly, and out the corner of his eye he saw Castiel do the same.

 

“Good.” Joshua smiled, and unlike Crowley’s, his was kindly. “You’re both great young talents, and I’d hate to see it go to waste. Might I suggest talking, before you restart rehearsal?” He gave them each a significant look, though signifying what Dean had no clue, then ambled out of the room.

 

As the door shut for the second time, Dean felt the enormity of what had just happened crash down on him. He couldn’t deny that what Joshua said was right; Dean had been thinking about the steps, had been determined to get them perfect, but he’d forgotten completely what they were supposed to mean. God, Crowley was going to run to Chuck, wasn’t he? He’s going to let Dean sweat it out for a couple hours and then he’ll swan back in to tell him to get the hell out, and—

 

“What did I do?”

 

Dean whipped around at Castiel’s sea-deep voice, which sounded unusually loose and tired. “What now?”

 

“Dean, I would like to know what I did to upset you,” he answered. “We’d barely met, and practically the first thing you said to me was to insult my voice.”

 

“Um…” Dean wracked his brain for what he could possibly be talking about. His voice was the only cool thing about him. “No?”

 

“Right, of course not.” Castiel shook his head. “Our first dance rehearsal. Hannah and I were already there, dancing at Crowley’s request. And when we finished you were glaring, like I’d offended you, but Dean…” He sighed. “I have no idea what I could have done.”

 

Where the hell was he getting this from? “I wasn’t glaring—No, you know what? Just, no. What was I supposed to do, throw you a parade and become your groupie?”

 

Castiel huffed in annoyance. “That’s not what I said, Dean.”

 

“Oh yeah? Are you sure? Maybe you just think I don’t know talent when I see it, seeing as I have so little.”

 

“What does that—?”

 

“Because how could I know skill or talent? I don’t take my work seriously, right? Because I never had to claw and scratch my way up to this level. I should’ve just been born with a silver spoon up my ass into a family that practically owns the business. Should’ve just tapdanced out the womb like you, huh?”

 

 His body took on angry lines, bellowing up like a bullfrog. “Are you suggesting—?”

 

“And if you really want to talk about glaring, how about all those looks you’ve been giving me? Staring is fucking creepy, alright? And while we’re at it, even on day one you glared at my brother and me for a having a legitimate fucking grievance with your beloved director, taking the time to turn around just so you knew who to judge. I mean, was that really necessary?”

 

“I know you don’t like me or my family, Dean, you’ve made it perfectly clear.”

 

“Good, ‘cause if you’re about to defend them I don’t want to hear it.”

 

“I wasn’t going to.”

 

“Sure.”

 

“I just can’t figure out why you even auditioned if you hate us so much.”

 

“I’m here for Sam, what do you think?”

 

“I don’t know what to think,” Castiel shot back, just shy of yelling.

 

A moment of silence as they both warred with their anger. Then Dean shook his head sharply. This was never going to work. Maybe he should just burn his bridges now and save the company the trouble of doing it later. “Whatever,” he snapped, moving to walk past Castiel and out of the studio.

 

“Dean,” Castiel said, grabbing his arm. He immediately stepped back out of his reach. Castiel looked like he was going to comment on that, but bit it back. He paused and started again, taking care to keep his voice even. “I know I look at you a lot. Do you want to know why?”

 

Dean lifted his face to the ceiling, grasping for patience. “Fine. Why?”

 

He drew himself up to his full height, proud and unapologetic. “Despite your arrogance and aggression and inability to see things outside your sphere, and even though you’ve done nothing but insult me, ignore me, and provoke me, I’m still… _drawn_ to you.”

 

Dean took a deep breath, but found he had no reply. He let it out, wind from his sails.

 

“Yes, Dean,” Castiel said, smiling bitterly. “I turned around because I wanted to put faces to the voices I heard laughing and joking behind me. Do you know before that I can’t remember the last time I heard someone besides Gabe make fun of Michael, or anyone at all who dared call Chuck out for his behavior? And…” He sighed, chewed his bottom lip for a second, and changed tacks. “I’m not unaware of how privileged my life has been. But imagine growing up in a family that was more…a network of people concerned with 24/7 performance, of constantly being ‘on.’ When I see my siblings and cousins onstage, I swear it’s the only time I see anything approaching genuineness in them. This… _family_ is just a group of people trained to act a certain way in life and only feel when they’re directed to do so. And for some reason when I heard you laughing, you sounded so happy…”

 

“So,” said Dean, trying to piece things together, “You don’t like me because I sound happy and you…aren’t?”

 

“No, Dean, listen to what I’m saying.” He turned away, running a hand through his thick hair, before starting again. “You’re different from all the people I’ve been surrounded by my whole life. And your talent…I couldn’t believe how few credits you had to your name when I saw you perform last fall.”

 

“You—You came to _Angels_? My brother’s practicum?” That Dean had already seen Castiel perform before was only natural, he was part of a major professional company,  but it had never occurred to him that the reverse could also be true.

 

“Yes, I saw it.”

 

Dean was at a loss. “Why?”

 

“Because my cousin Samandriel was starring in it. You probably knew him by his nickname. He prefers to go by Alfie.”

 

Alfie? That sweet kid who kicked all ass onstage was a goddamn Milton? “He played Prior.”

 

“Yes. And you were Joe Pitt. In other productions I’ve seen that role gets overshadowed, but not when you played him. The moment…that famous scene when Joe strips naked in front of Louis…I’ve always agreed with Louis’s rejection of him. It’s a wild, foolhardy gesture, and it’s always come off as so…false and unnecessary, unreasonably showy, an over the top attempt to make a point that could have been made more honestly and intimately. And so yes, Louis was right to say no.

 

“But when _you_ were Joe…When you played him, Dean…you made me change my mind. At that moment, all the subtle physical work you’d been doing throughout the previous hours of the show came to a head. Joe claims to find happiness wherever he can but he’s denied himself so many physical and emotional things. His temple garments are the armor he puts on to protect his sensitive soul, a shield against all the world. When your Joe stripped those garments away and stood naked in front of Louis it wasn’t the loud, brash gesture, but the quiet and vulnerable one. Taking off the symbol of his hollow faith and leaving nothing but the hope of raw humanity in its wake. A man standing before another that made him question himself down to his very foundations.” Castiel’s eyes bore into him, unblinking. “I’d never empathized with Joe before. You made an already brilliantly written role shine even brighter. A true actor.”

 

Dean’s world made no sense anymore. Castiel thought he was…good? “Well, you know, Sam was directing it, so really, if you think about it—”

 

“It was you who performed it, no matter whose directions you were following. And then,” he added, before Dean could protest more, “we danced to ‘Rum Tum Tugger,’ and I saw you weren’t a rock star.”

 

Jesus, the twists and turns this man took. “Thanks.”

 

“No, I—” Cas buried his face in his hands for a second. “Why can’t I ever say things right around you? What I mean is you perform the song like I’ve never seen it. You’re a troublemaker but you’re inviting everyone to laugh with you, just like in real life. You’re flirty but not leading on, teasing the ones who aren’t amused by you, but not insulting or demeaning them…except for me.” His entire expression fell, and the hurt he was so clearly feeling took Dean off guard. “You don’t treat anyone else this way. Why me?”

 

“Cas…” Dean didn’t even know how to begin to explain himself. All of the animosity that had developed between them – or that Dean thought had developed between them – dissipated so completely he could barely comprehend his thought process from even an hour ago. This wasn’t the monster he’d built up in his head over the past few weeks, but the actor that had so enthralled. Just a man, in the end. Maybe he wasn’t so bad, but it didn’t mean he had all his facts straight. So Dean latched on to the first thing he knew he could fix. “I never insulted your voice, man. Why would you think that?”

 

“When I was singing alone on the stage, and you walked in.”

 

“Yeah. And I insulted you, how?” All he could remember from that conversation was the accusation that he didn’t take the show seriously. And then it dawned on him. “You mean when I said— Dude, you can’t tell me no one’s every pointed out how deep your speaking voice is. You sound like you should be a basso fucking profondo or something.” Castiel just stood there, a completely unfair puppy look on his face, scarily similar to how Sam’s would get whenever John insulted him, like someone he cared about had a negative opinion and now he was self-conscious and ashamed. But Dean couldn’t possibly hold that power over Castiel, could he? “That wasn’t— It’s nothing bad, Cas, it’s just surprising, is all. It’s kind of impressive, actually. You must have a pretty wide range, right?” Castiel shrugged, and while the edges of embarrassment still traced his face, most of the sadness had gone. Dean sucked in a breath; Cas had just bared a lot of his thoughts about Dean to him, and while normally he wouldn’t be worried about reciprocating, there was something so jarring about seeing the normally stoic man so vulnerable.

 

Suddenly very tired, Dean didn’t bother biting it back any longer. “I wasn’t glaring at you, that first dance day. I mean, I guess I don’t know what sort of look I had on my face, but it wasn’t directed at you.” He crossed his arms, hunched in on himself. “You’re right, you know. I don’t have much training. I have kind of a shitty history with dance. Bad legs for it.”

 

“Your legs are perfect,” Cas said, brow creasing into a confused frown.

 

“Oh, well,” Dean paused, momentarily derailed by this unexpected pronouncement, “thanks, I guess? But I only ever tried out because Sam wanted me to audition with him. I never expected to get cast, so believe me, I’m just as surprised as you are that I’m here.”

 

“I’m not surprised, Dean,” he said, and it was so sincere, so matter-of-fact, Dean couldn’t help but believe him. He just—he just couldn’t understand why. Before he could muster up an answer, Cas continued, “You’re an honest actor and a passionate dancer and have more star quality in your little finger than my entire family combined.”

 

“Cas—”

 

“Listen. You have a future in performance. Sam does too, of course, a bright one, but that doesn’t preclude your own career.”

 

“I have a career,” Dean protested, “as a techie.”

 

“And you’re a good one, I’m sure,” he said impatiently. “But this production alone could last for months. A few more of these under your belt and companies across the country will be tripping over themselves to hand you a contract. Maybe even this one.”

 

Dean scoffed. Cas growled and grabbed Dean’s tank with both fists, tugging him so that they were practically nose to nose. Dean instinctively wrapped his hands around his wrists to exert some control over the movement. “You have a God-given gift, Dean. Don’t waste it. It’d be a sin to waste it.”

 

Dean kissed him.

 

Cas didn’t startle at all – practically met him halfway – and their sweaty shirts were sticking together, and Dean was probably getting dirt in Cas’s thick black hair, but really neither of them noticed, because the kiss was so bright and all-consuming. It sparked with power, the release of their tension a supernova burst so spectacular it left them gasping for air when they surfaced from it. They rested their foreheads together and caught their breath. Slowly Cas unfisted his hands and trailed them down Dean’s chest, then his stomach. They split then to each side, coming over to rest on his hips, just where’d they’d landed when they’d bumped into each other in the basement. Castiel’s eyes followed his hands, lingering, until they flicked to his left. Dean followed their direction and blushed, seeing their reflections hanging onto each other in the mirror. The sight of his own flushed face almost brought him out of the moment, an alarm bell going off in his head screaming _It’s happening again, it’s happening again—!_

 

He didn’t catch more than a glance, though, because Cas jerked their hips together and nipped at Dean’s bottom lip, and Dean surrendered to his kiss. Maybe he was making a mistake but it felt so, so good, especially when their ferocity fell off into curiosity. The avid, quick learning they displayed when working, their careful study they turned onto each other, mapping out lips, teeth, and tongues, the softness and sweetness of each other’s mouths. It was so good Dean didn’t protest when Cas used his hips to maneuver him into taking steps backward, and he didn’t break off their kisses until he felt the barre press into his ass.

 

Instead of answering Dean’s questioning look, Cas tucked his fingers under the hem of his white tank and traced the tips lightly along Dean’s sides, raising his eyebrows. Dean nodded up once and lifted his arms, took the brief moment when fabric was covering his head to gulp. It’d been almost a year since he’d last had sex, never having the energy to gear himself up for a lackluster one night stand after Aaron had left him. And now that his anger for Castiel had been subsumed by lust, all that adrenaline was making every touch, every movement sharp and crystal clear. Cas tugged his black tank one handed, and Dean he groaned as their bare chests met. Goosebumps rippled across his skin, whether from his sweat in the cool air, or the way Cas was now running his hands down his back, or both—Dean didn’t know, but it didn’t matter, because now that they were flush again, Dean could feel that Cas was already as hard as Dean (christ but they’d gotten worked up quickly). Their kissing turned messy as their hips couldn’t help but join the action.

 

They both groaned when they figured out how to slot together perfectly, their thin dance pants not hiding a thing, though adding friction enough to keep things interesting. But after a while it just wasn’t enough, became more frustrating than anything else. Cas was the first to snap, growling and pulling away from Dean only to again grasp his hips and jerk him around until he was facing the mirror. Dean reflexively put his hands up to stop the momentum, slapping the mirror with fingers splayed.  It shook under the force. “What the—”

 

Cas wrapped his arms around Dean’s waist and drew up close behind him, his hard cock pressing against his ass through their clothes. “Dean,” Cas said, drawing out the word and his voice, holy shit, plumbing the dark depths of the ocean it’d gotten so rough and deep. He nudged Dean’s chin up with his nose and sucked on the tender part of his neck a bit before meeting his eyes in the mirror. “Next time—”

 

“Next time?” Dean echoed. Up until this moment Dean had been sure, with as much thought as he’d been able to spare to it, that this was all mere impulse from Cas, because no one really fell for their costars, not like Dean did, never like Dean did.

 

Cas must have heard some of his uncertainty, because he emphasized, “ _Next time_ , I’m going to bring you home. Lay you out on my bed. Carve out an entire day just to discover you.”

 

Oh, okay then. Dean grinned to cover his blush, always blushing with Cas. “The whole day, huh? You must have some stamina—”

 

Cas pinched him and he yelped. “All day, Dean, and all to myself.” His fingers drew patterns on Dean’s chest and sides as he spoke. He sighed in…longing? No, it couldn’t be. “I’m going to throw all the windows wide open and count your freckles in the sunlight, see how bright your eyes shine in it.” Dean shivered and was about to move his hands when Cas slid his own over them. “Stay?” he murmured.

 

Now that was the question, wasn’t it. All Dean had ever wanted was for people to stay, was for someone to care enough to ask him to stay, and he knew Cas didn’t mean it that way but hearing the word plucked all his nerves like strings and he had to bite back a moan when he answered, “I’ll stay, Cas.”

 

And he did. He stayed put when Cas’s hands moved back along his arms, over his shoulders, back down to his torso stroking, pinching, teasing every inch of Dean’s bare skin. When he thumbed his nipple Dean gasped, and Cas gave him a wicked smile in the mirror as he brought his hands up to pinch them both at once. Castiel was merciless: his hands in constant motion, his eyes fixed on every little action he could eke from him. Dean couldn’t hide the stuttering of his breath anymore, his muscles jumping on full display in the mirror no matter how hard he tried to be still and pretend this wasn’t affecting him as much as it was.

 

“I’ll fuck you next time, Dean,” Cas rumbled. He ran his lips along his ear and his jaw, but kept his eyes trained on Dean’s face. “I’ll spread you open on my fingers. I’ll take my time. Won’t give you what you need until you beg for it. Not until you’re stripped as bare as you were onstage, until nothing matters but how good you feel, and how much better I can make it. And when I slide inside you” – he pressed himself even closer along Dean’s back – “you’ll be so hot, so tight, and you’ll try everything to make me go faster, won’t you? Squeeze me and move those beautiful hips. But still I’ll go slow, even slower than when I fingered you open, because I want to feel every bit of you, want you to know every inch of me.” He grinded his own hips against Dean’s ass and their breaths hitched as one. “I’ll be so deep inside you’ll taste me,” he whispered. “Would you like that?”

 

What Dean _would like_ was to call him out on it, make a joke, tell him to put his money where his mouth is. But his brain wasn’t in charge at the moment. All he managed was, “Yeah, Cas, please.”

 

They twisted together, curving their necks around so they could kiss again. Dean thrust his ass back into Cas’s hips in turn, Cas kept one of his hands wrapped around Dean’s chest, rubbing at his left nipple – point of weakness exploited for all its worth – while the other snuck down to the waist of his pants, pulled the lace, and peeled his pants and underwear down just enough for his cock to spring free.

 

Dean couldn’t help but shout at Cas stroking him after an age without, and Castiel took advantage of it by burying his face back in Dean’s neck, whispering dirty nonsense in a steady stream about how good Dean was, how much more he could take, that Cas would give him—and his hand was rough with nothing but sweat, fingers surprisingly calloused, learning quickly how to make Dean squirm, playing him like, Dean didn’t doubt, any number of instruments he could play and this was just another way to make Dean sing.

 

“Dean, I want to see you, Dean, Dean,” Cas groaned. Neither of them were able to look away from each other’s faces in the mirror, both of them flushed and sweaty, mouths bruised from kissing. Dean couldn’t believe how full Cas’s mouth was, christ, all fruit-ripe and spilling filthy things like he couldn’t stop himself. “I want you Dean, god, you’re so beautiful—” And despite the embarrassment that surged through him at the praise, it was the final spark before Dean exploded outward, gave a shout that fell into a moan as Cas worked him through it. “Yes, so good, Dean, so good, so good…”

 

When Dean came back to himself, the first thing he noticed was his come, splattered all over the mirror and dripping from the barre, the sweaty smudges where his hands had been, the condensation lingering where their breath had fogged the glass. He wasn’t quite carrying his own weight, but between the barre and Cas plastered against his back and arms squeezing him tight, Dean was able to regain his footing. Cas helped him pull his pants back up, and when Dean tried to search his face he saw most of it was obscured by his messy black hair and Dean’s shoulder. Cas was still breathing heavily where he was tucked into his neck, and his cock was burning like a brand against him, and Dean was spent but damn did he want to be fucked by it now anyway. At least he could get the next best thing—

 

Dean peeled Cas’s arms away from his body, and using the element of surprise he took his own turn to manhandle, swingng him around to press him to a clean part of the barre and tugging down his leggings before Cas could take a breath. Dean dropped to his knees and took his cock in hand. He gave it a slow, firm stroke from root to tip, examined it as he did. It looked fucking delicious, cut and with precome pearling at the tip. He licked the head, tasted it from the source. Cas gasped. Dean started running his lips down the length of him, leaving slopping kisses in his wake until he could bury himself in the coarse hair at its base. Between the sweat of their workout and their sex the scent was strong, but Dean breathed it in, nuzzling his balls, reaching with his other hand to cup them so he could suck them in his mouth one by one. Cas was groaning, nearly whimpering. One of his hands scrambled for sweaty purchase on the barre while the other wrapped round the back of Dean’s head, not pushing, but rhythmically squeezing along with his uneven breath. His hips twitched in little abortive thrusts. “Dean,” he moaned, somewhere between an order and a plea.

 

Dean couldn’t refuse him, didn’t want to. He looked up at him, straight into his clear blue eyes, and slowly started sucking his cock. Cas stopped moaning, seemingly transfixed on just watching Dean, but Dean knew he could do better than that. He moved faster, sucked harder, got a little rough with his balls, tongued his head until Cas was shouting, and when he finally, finally heard him reduced to “Dean, Dean, you have to—I’m going to—” he braced his hips and took Cas down as far as he could go, and when he came, Dean’s name a prayer on his lips, he swallowed.

 

Dean pulled off, flicking one last lick at the head of Cas’s cock. Cas made a small noise of protest and Dean laughed, wiping the drool and a little come from his chin. Castiel just snatched his pants back up and tugged Dean off his knees and into a kiss. He moaned, Dean guessed at the taste of himself in his mouth, and he happily let him have his fill. At length they stopped and separated, staring at each other. Then Cas tipped Dean’s to the side and sucked a stray drop of come from his collarbone.

 

The room was quiet and dim with the sun about to set. Cas kissed tiny kisses back up his neck, his jaw, until he landed a few more on Dean’s mouth. When he pulled back his face was open, guileless. “Can you open the windows?” he asked. “I’ll clean this up.”

 

Dean blinked and drew back. Cas smiled and left the room, presumably for cleaning supplies. Dean tore his eyes away from the lean muscles of Cas’s back and the empty doorway he’d disappeared through, glanced toward the mess they’d made, and turned heel to open the windows on the other side of the room. He tried to leave his feelings behind with the evidence of their sex so that they’d wipe clean, too; tried to shrug them off as he undid the latches on the windows; bit back a bitter laugh as the cool lake air sighed through the screens and prickled at the sweat drying on his skin. He thought he’d been safe, but he’d been wrong.

 

Lights were already turning on in the city around Paradise despite the traces of orange and pink in the sky, even above the lake to the east. Chicago should have been his city now after all these years, but it never truly felt like home. Or maybe he was the one that wasn’t quite right, not for Chicago, and not for the stage, either. He wasn’t quite right in the head, always expecting the feelings people had for him were real, though he knew, _knew_ his costars couldn’t feel the same. Here he was again, still surprised, aching with the fresh burn.

 

Except this show was _Cats_. The absurdity of Dean’s life meant that even now he was falling when to Castiel Novak, Milton golden boy extraordinaire, it’d just been a quick fuck to get rid of the tension. All that bullshit about next time had been just that, bullshit, dirty talk in the heat of the moment. He hadn’t meant a damn thing. Even all that talk beforehand about how much he liked Dean’s acting was probably just Cas trying to redirect the energy and Dean had actually believed him, oh god, and Sam was gonna laugh when he found out, because he always had a nose for when Dean was falling too hard, and Dean wished he were here now to laugh because then Dean could get angry and anger would be better than this sinking, nauseating feeling clawing at his stomach. Cas was gone, had left him just like the others, but really what else would they have done? Not like Dean expected – or wanted – a fucking cuddle or something, but he had thought…he’d almost been sure it was real. But he’d been sure before, too.

 

His thoughts were so heavy and distracting, Dean started when Castiel circled his arms around his waist. A parody of their position earlier. “You’re pretty tense for what we just did, unless—” he stiffened. “You don’t want…?” He started drawing back, and before Dean even came to a decision in his brain his hands acted of their own accord and grabbed Cas’s wrists, keeping him close. Dean’s throat closed up and he couldn’t get a word out, wouldn’t know what to say anyway, but the gesture seemed to be enough for Cas. He relaxed against Dean’s back, wrapped his arms more securely around his waist, and rested his chin on Dean’s shoulder, but not before giving him a little kiss on the soft spot behind his ear. That…that didn’t _feel_ like one time tumble behavior. But it still didn’t mean…

 

Cas hummed, sounding content, and Dean felt the deep vibrations roll through his skin and into his bones. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” he said. “I’m in this place all the time and I never look out at the view. I can almost understand why they called it Paradise.”

 

So Dean looked, too, because it was better than thinking. And a realization hit like lightning. He’d seen the lake countless times, seen the other Great Lakes and lesser ones all around the country; he’d seen numberless sunrises and sunsets, getting up early for work and getting home late, endless city blocks and infinite open roads turned molten by the dawn or dusk; Dad tapping his hands along to “Moby Dick” on the steering wheel of the impala and Sammy sleeping in the backseat, or Mary in the kitchen, singing voice weaving with the morning calls of the birds as she baked him a birthday pie, in that mythical time when they were still a family. But never had he ever watched the horizon grow rich in blues and purples with someone’s arms embracing him, their heartbeat steady and their muscles solid, secure and _romantic_ , if that’s what this was.

 

He didn’t know if it was the vastness of the lake making him feel small, the steady warmth seeping into his back, or if he was just plain tired, but something gave him the courage to ask – somehow he had no fucks left to give – “Did you mean it?” The barest whisper.

 

But Cas heard. “Mean what?”

 

“About next time.”

 

Castiel pulled his arms away and Dean loosened his grip, allowing it. He steeled himself for rejection, compliantly turning around so Cas could say it to his face. But he just stared at Dean, head cocked, eyes bright and penetrating. “You think I don’t really want you,” he said wonderingly. Dean squared his jaw and fought the urge to look away. “I’d like to take you to dinner once we get out of here. A date,” he added, to make his point clear.

 

It was Dean’s turn to search Cas’s face, trying to find any hint of deceit or insincerity, but Cas looked as calm as ever, and almost…hopeful. “Okay,” he said.

 

Cas’s whole body lit up as he smiled—not his big, showman smile, or his practiced, polite one, but a small one Dean had never seen before, tiny and close-mouthed. But the lines were crinkling around his eyes, and Dean was surprised to find it sweet, shy, and even a little dorky, to be honest. On impulse he placed a soft kiss on that smile. Before he could pull away completely Cas put a hand on his nape and gently guided him back to his mouth. The tenderness of his touch, the softness of his kisses, stoked the tiny spark of hope that flickered inside him, fanning it into a flame he couldn’t control, the upswell of joy tingling across his nerves causing a minute shiver. Cas felt it anyway, tugged him closer, but broke their mouths apart with a sigh. “I’m crazy about you, Dean Winchester.”

 

Maybe staring was contagious because Dean could do nothing but do it back at him. The stark boldness of just _saying_ something like that, no frills, no shame. Dean could never do that. And Dean realized he truly never _had._ He’d loved Robin, and Cassie, and Ellie, and Aaron, but had he ever…No. He’d never gotten up the courage. He’d tried to show them in a million other ways, big and small: cooked for them, smiled at them, made love to them, but…He’d never come out and said it, had he? Not until it was too late.

 

This time it could be different, it could be real. If he could do it. He tried to choke it out around his nerves, articulate his hopes and desires, wanted to tell Castiel how gorgeous he was, and talented, and how much he admired him and wanted him and— “Me…me too,” he said.

 

It was enough. Cas glowed even brighter, pressed the shadows to the edges of the room with his happiness, shared it with Dean in another quick kiss. It tasted spicy sweet. “Come on,” he said, stepping back though his hands trailed down Dean’s arms, reluctant to let him go. “Let’s practice so we can get out of here. And so we can go on our date.”

 

Dean grinned; couldn’t help it. “Yeah? Where do you want to go?”

 

“Anywhere, so long as it’s with you.”

 

Christ, he had to stop saying shit like that. Dean valiantly attempted to ignore his blush. “Uh, you like burgers?” Fuck, stupid, stupid, Cas probably was a health nut with his crazy work ethic and dancer’s body.

 

But he looked pleased. “I love burgers.”

 

“Kuma’s?” It was Dean’s favorite place. They had burgers as big as your head, named after and inspired by the best metal bands, and they had good beer on tap and hard rock blasting from the speakers, and oh shit, Cas might like burgers but would he even like that kind of scene?

 

“I’ve always wanted to go there,” he said.

 

“Really? Why haven’t you?”

 

Cas reeled him back in. “No one to go with me. Can you imagine any of my cousins there, or even my sister?”

 

Dean grimaced. “Ugh, don’t ruin it.”

 

Cas laughed. He gave him another peck and pushed away once and for all. “Come on!”

 

They kicked their shirts away from the center of the floor and found their marks, gazes snagging each other in their characters’ poses, and waited. And waited. They burst out laughing. Cas ran over to the stereo to start the song in the right place and Dean hurried to turn on the lights. And this time, when Cas appeared to the imaginary audience, he tossed a sly look in his direction like Dean was finally in on the joke, like maybe he’d been in on it all along. Maybe Rum Tum Tugger had been in on the joke all along, too. Maybe Mistoffelees calling him a bore was another joke, a misdirect before he slunk off to find Mungojerrie and Rumpleteazer, his kittens-in-crime. Maybe Mistoffelees reveals himself when he does not just because the cats all needed him but also because it was Tugger who called him. Maybe Dean really was perfectly matched to Castiel across from him on the stage his family had built but that they were going to make their own.

 

And maybe, Dean thought, as Castiel kept dancing, jumping into his solo with abandon while Dean watched in awe from the sidelines, soaring higher and higher with every leap, Dean’s stomach swooping as if Cas cradled his soul in his chest and he was flying through the air with him...maybe their date was going to go well. Maybe they’d eat and drink to bursting, and Dean would sing along with his favorite rock songs just to make Cas smile. Maybe they’d go back to Cas’s place, and if neither of them have rehearsal tomorrow maybe they’ll sleep in late. Or maybe they’ll rise with dawn and Cas will throw all his windows open and make good on his _next time_. Maybe they’ll fuck, or maybe they’ll make love, or maybe they’ll get their fill of both. Maybe when they’re done they’ll kiss and it will mean, see you back at the theatre, I can’t wait, I can’t wait.

 

And maybe when the show’s had its run and they’re no longer costars they’ll kiss some more, and it won’t be a goodbye. Because maybe, just maybe, Dean had found someone who felt just as deeply as him.

 

Maybe this time, he’ll be lucky.

 

**Author's Note:**

> The gorgeous artwork you see in this fic comes from the skillful hand of delicirony. Deli, I am so, so grateful. Despite everything life's been throwing at this amazing artist, they came through with pieces that exceeded expectations. The colors! The poses! The adorable dividers! Do me a favor and tell them how awesome they are, would you?
> 
> Thanks are also due to my real life best friend and here's why: when the 200th episode aired almost three years ago now, I contacted her as soon as we'd both seen it. "Musical episode! Sammy's a theatre geek! Dean totally likes the music! And I counted three (3) separate _Cats_ posters what does this mean???" Her reply was, quite simply, "Destiel _Cats_ AU." Me: "Nah, that would never work." Me, a minute later: "Dean as Rum Tum Tugger, though." So here's your fic, my dude. Three years late, but I finally wrote the damn thing. I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> Of course, the mods running the Dean/Cas Tropefest provided just the motivation I needed to actually get this story done, so you should go tell Jojo and muse how awesome they are too!
> 
> Comments and questions are welcomed, both here and at my [tumblr](asecretvice.tumblr.com). I hope you enjoyed the show! :)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Cat's Meow](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12103983) by [delicirony (deliciousirony)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deliciousirony/pseuds/delicirony)




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